The Glorious Revolution
Date: 2026-02-26T16:07:53.067000+00:00

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Table of Contents URL: https://www.royalroad.com/fiction/87716/the-glorious-revolution-isekai-kingdom-building

The Glorious Revolution - [Isekai Kingdom Building]

by
Persimmon

Original COMPLETED LitRPG
Portal Fantasy / Isekai
Progression
War and Military
Male Lead
Action
Adventure
Fantasy
GameLit
High Fantasy
Kingdom Building
Magic
Strategy
Strong Lead

Leonard Weiss has done his job as a Hero. He should be able to live in peace now that the Incursion has been defeated. Unfortunately, Haylich’s nobles have other plans. Leonard’s life is once again ripped away, but he won’t let the culprits go unpunished this time.

He's suffered the foul presence of slavery and tyranny for too long. It's time to change things, whether the people in charge want it or not.

The Glorious Revolution is what happens when a Hero from the modern world, with modern morals, decides that the aristocracy in charge of his new home must be removed.

Prologue - A Propagandist's Job is Never Done - Sigurd 1

The problem with nobles, Sigurd knew, was that they had no appreciation for art. They wanted results, and they wanted them immediately. They didn’t even have the good grace of throwing more money at him for the effort.

What was even more maddening was their self-delusion, their absolute belief in their superiority. They basked in the praise of others, oblivious to their incompetence.

And so, here he was, in a lavishly decorated sitting room, sipping on imported tea from Lantea, pretending to listen to the inane ramblings of Duke Hetnia's dim-witted son.

“And surely you must know that my friend, the First Lance Bernard De Luminier, did most of the work anyway. I always told him he was too humble, letting that peasant take credit. This is why I think you should focus on his roots. I’ll tell you, everyone laughed themselves silly after he revealed he was from a peasant family. The man’s father was a fisherman, for the Light's sake!” Edward Osperry Hetnia guffawed.

Sigurd chuckled alongside him. He was no idiot. When a noble thought you didn’t share their sense of humor, they could flip on you like an angry Pepsis.

The young man before him could be called handsome in the way all nobles who had access to the resources needed to reach the Journeyman tier young did. Within a few years, he’d likely receive his third blessing, becoming an Expert.

If Sigurd had even a little less self-control, he would have reached over the table and snapped his neck. It would be easy, too. Despite his profession being a bard, he was a Master. Not that he advertised the fact.

But he wouldn’t survive the flight out of the mansion, not with all the guards posted at strategic points. Unfortunately, the captain in charge of security seemed good at their job, unlike their lord.

“Frankly, I never understood why the king gave him all that attention anyway. I remember Father saying something about him having valuable knowledge from wherever they plucked him from, but what could a fisherman’s son know? Even if his world had developed some interesting crafts, it’s not like he’d know about them.” Ronald continued, taking great amusement in emphasizing the Hero’s low birth.

“Perhaps he didn’t even understand the information’s value?” Sigurd suggested, pushing a silver lock away from his face. It always paid to present as an androgynous, pretty man, as people still took him seriously, but they lowered their guard, allowing him to slip in innocent questions like that. While he was here for the money, he wouldn’t mind getting to hear something juicy, especially if the king himself thought it important.

The ponce shook his head, sending golden curls flying dramatically, “Unfortunately, he was quite tight-lipped. It made the King angry enough that he sent him out to fight a month sooner than he should have, which caused a whole scandal when the leader of the Whiteguard complained in open court it would endanger the Hero…”

Ah, so that’s what that whole fuss was about. I knew there was a significant falling out between old Remus and the Royal Court that the Prime Minister needed months to smooth over, but for it to come from that… That information must have been something, huh?

Unfortunately, the heir to the Duchy of Hetnia seemed to know nothing more than that and resumed his prattle about using specific rhythms he had once heard from an elven bard who had toured the kingdom.

Sigurd nodded at all the right places and reassured the man he would do his very best to comply with his wishes. When a maid, collared as all the household staff seemed to be in the mansion, entered to remind the noble of a ball he needed to prepare for, Sigurd slipped out, finally free.

The mansion’s corridors were just as cursed with poor taste. Golden statues of the House of Hetnia’s ancestors decorated the hall in a ridiculous display of wealth. Fine Branderi tapestries told the history of how the House was formed, no doubt redacted and edited appropriately.

Unfortunately, he was stopped by a guard before he could go too far. “Where do you think you are going?” The man asked gruffly through his enchanted helmet.

Sigurd gave him a winning smile, projecting the air of a clueless bard whose head was filled with nothing but song. It was a skill he had developed over the decades and always served him well to keep it sharp. “Oh? You are right. Where am I going?” He tapped his lips, apparently just as stumped by the question.

Before the man could do more than roll his eyes, Sigurd slapped a fist in his open hand, “Ah! Yes, I need to go to the steward!”

The guard grunted and told him in stringent terms to wait where he was while he signaled a servant down the corridor to get another guard.

Soon enough, a possibly even gruffer woman stomped to him and gave him a curt nod. She didn’t bother with giving him her name, knowing that it was unlikely they’d see each other again.

She was more right than she knew, as Sigurd had no intention of sticking around Mellassoria. Especially since his employers would have some things to say about his choice of song.

Finally, they reached an opulent office, where a bespectacled man, dressed in a silken frock and attended to by three slaves, was parsing through an exceptionally thick tome.

His guide took a moment to straighten up and soften her features, showing a surprising amount of acumen for someone Sigurd suspected of being barely sentient.

“My lord!” She called, knocking on the open door.

The steward - which was obviously either a very remunerative position in this household or someone capable enough in his embezzlement that he managed to hide it from his lord - didn’t look up, though there was no doubt he had heard her.

Five minutes passed in increasingly stilted silence, and Sigurd observed with amusement as his guide’s face steadily reddened.

A fresh hire? She certainly seems strong enough. Maybe she distinguished herself fighting the Incursion? The nobles might not like Leonard Weiss, but he certainly knows how to build up warriors. Though if they hired people he personally trained, they might have a situation on their hands once they go public with their disparaging.

It wasn’t his business if the woman had sold out. He certainly had done it often enough in the early days of his career. But he doubted this whole plan of spreading fake news about the most liked man in Haylich would turn out quite how the nobles expected it.

Finally, the steward lifted his gaze, meeting the woman’s. “Dismissed.” He sneered.

“I have been ordered to stay close to the bard until he leaves the premises- sir.” She tacked on at the end, evidently not used to the power games even petty nobles enjoyed so much.

That was the wrong thing to say because the steward proceeded to tear into the woman, lambasting her poor posture - which was ramrod straight - lacking hygiene and even lowly skills.

He went so far that Sigurd momentarily worried she’d unsheathe her sword and run him through, but she kept her mouth shut, taking the verbal beating, and snapped out a salute once he was done, walking away woodenly.

“Ah, I’m sorry you had to see something so unsightly, Mr. Sigurd. I pray you’ll forgive me.” The steward finally turned to him, giving a smile that said he very much intended for him to see that.

Sigurd was no stranger to these games. “Ah, you need not worry, my lord. I have been so busy putting together all of Heir Hetnia’s suggestions that I didn’t notice.”

Actually getting paid turned out to be a more involved endeavor than he would have liked. Especially because the steward was savvy enough to know that bards of Sigurd’s level could decide to take on an entirely new appearance and lay low for a while after getting the money and then not deliver the promised performance.

It was considered suicide to do so in Mellassoria, where Whiteguards could reveal disguises and polymorphs with their pesky true sight. However, some people still regularly made the attempt, meaning Sigurd was not getting paid the whole thing upfront.

He didn’t fight too hard on the issue, of course. Seeming attached to money was a faux pas in noble company and would have the side effect of making him look suspicious. Ultimately, he got half, which was just about what he expected when he took the job. Three gold coins were still more than enough to live off of for several months. Years, if he decided to lower his living standard, but that was an option best not thought about.

By the time he left the mansion, Sigurd was mentally exhausted and decided he needed to reward himself for not having punched anyone. It wouldn’t have been the first time, but he was quite attached to his current identity.

I’ll need to leave Mellassoria once I spread my song enough, but I should be welcomed warmly in the south. They certainly need some fun, given how grim things are there lately. Of course, if I’m wrong about what will happen next and the Hero takes the abuse without reacting, I will have to become someone else. But I doubt that’s the case. The look he gave the stockades where slaves were being punished as he left the Capital was enough to tell me things will change, whether the nobles want it or not.

Entering the Opal Maiden, the tavern he was currently residing in, Sigurd exchanged greetings with the regulars, smoothly making his way to the back. The cooks barely gave him a glance, more than used to his dalliances.

The broom closet of a tavern was not where someone would expect rebellion to be plotted, which was exactly why it happened there.

It also had the side effect of forcing the people doing the plotting to be ready to act like amorous lovers if someone entered mid-discussion, but unfortunately, it hadn’t happened yet.

Sigurd took a moment to straighten up, feeling like a schoolboy with his first crush. It was ridiculous how deeply the woman he was meeting could affect him, but she was considered one of the most beautiful in the kingdom for a reason. That she was extremely dangerous only added to the intrigue.

“Were you successful?” Her melodious voice came by as soon as he closed the door, and Sigurd turned with what he hoped was a handsome smile.

“Of course. They are plotting exactly what you thought they would and hired me to spread malicious tales about the Hero.” He answered quickly. She was not the kind of person to appreciate long-winded explanations.

“Good. It seems like the Royal Court is finally moving. They talked themselves in circles enough that I was starting to fear they would never do anything,” She replied, and even in the complete darkness, Sigurd could make out her stunning purple eyes and elegant features, crowned with a cascade of long, dark hair.

“The Heir seemed to think that the King only kept the Hero around because of some precious knowledge from his old world,” He added, hopeful to earn a smile.

Unfortunately, the woman only pursed her lips. That was almost as beautiful, though, so Sigurd didn’t complain.

“Yes, I know about that, but he’s been surprisingly tight-lipped, even with me and his little woman.” Then she sighed, straightening, “I’m sure I don’t need to tell you this, but if they’ve started the propaganda efforts, they’ll do something stupid soon. You should leave once you’ve sung your song a few times.”

And with that, she was gone. The Mistress of Shadows had escaped the senses of a Master bard with no visible effort.

Sigurd took a moment to muss up his clothes and exited the closet, rushing to the main room to the chuckles of the kitchen staff.

After making the rounds and lightly chatting with the regular patrons, he walked to the small podium built for the resident performers and produced his lute from the enchanted box behind the stand.

“Upon distant shores, whence heroes are rare,
Came forth a champion, bold and unaware.
Summoned by fate, with no path to retreat,
He vowed his new realm’s safety to complete.

Against the Void’s cruel and unyielding maw,
With sword and valor, he upheld the law.
Each battle fought, a testament to his zeal,
For people's peace, he brokered no false deal.

Yet shadows darkened within hallowed halls,
Where whispered treason through the gold walls crawls.
The hero, once adored by common breath,
Was met with blades of betrayal and death.

Though flesh was torn, his mighty spirit thrived,
From death’s cold grasp, he emerged but survived.
With heart aflame and revenge his solemn creed,
He swore to plant justice’s righteous seed.

Thus sings the bard of one not homebound led,
A hero scorned, yet by vengeance is fed.
Upon this tale, let none turn deaf nor blind,
For in his quest, a better world we find.”

Chapter 1 - Requiem for the Lost - Leonard 1

“So, look within, when you my absence cry,

I'm not gone. Our love will never die.”

The last couplet of the poem rolled heavily off Leonard’s tongue, yet he forced himself to finish it. It had been one of Belinda’s favorites, and he would do his best to honor her memory.

The cold wind of the last days of winter blew harshly around him, sending his blonde hair flying back. Humidity was high, and had it been any other day, Leonard would have hurried back home, knowing that a storm was coming. But his vigil was not complete, and until that moment arrived, he would not leave his post. His bright green eyes did not leave the grave of the woman he loved.

How vibrant she had been, so in love with life. Her long brown hair, tied in a graceful braid. Her doe-like eyes, staring up at him above the smattering of freckles he liked so much. A gentle smile stretching over her full lips.

If Leonard had less self-control, he would have reached towards her grave, futilely attempting to touch her one last time. Instead, his arms hung heavily at his sides. His hands clenched tightly. He had not worn his armor for the funeral, and so the simple dark fabric that made his clothes would have been shredded to pieces had he been a little less careful. Even in the depth of his grief, however, Leonard retained enough control not to destroy the clothes that Belinda had sewn for him.

For all the strength that to this moment coursed through his veins, Leonard was still impotent when confronted with her death.

Oh, he had tried to heal her. The Holy Light had answered his call as eagerly as it always did since his victory over the Void, illuminating their little cottage. But there had been nothing to do.

Belinda had been dead the moment the Void’s Dew-tainted tea touched her lips. She had gracefully folded into herself, the last vestiges of life allowing her to sit back down. She was merely a Journeyman, and the blood of a Scourge was too much for her to bear.

Before he could cast the first healing spell after ridding himself of the poison, her soul had left her body. [True Resurrection] would not work with a tainted corpse, and if he cleansed it, little would be left.

Two days had passed from that moment, and yet Leonard could still see it repeating itself before him.

The woman he would have married in a few short weeks joyfully opened a pack that had arrived from the capital. Within, she found several goods that were hard to come by, as the town of Alpar was far from proper civilization. She smiled and puttered about, preparing the fresh new tea for the both of them, enjoying the simple task.

Alpar used to be a quaint little town before the Incursion, she had told him, and it would go back to that once the refugee crisis was handled. Then, she drank, and it was over.

“We should have left the kingdom like I told you.” He murmured, his words lost in the wind. “You always laughed when I said it, but you would have still been alive, and I could have been an adventurer somewhere in Brander.” The bitterness that colored his tone was something Leonard had done his best to conceal from Belinda, not wanting to spoil her mood with his recriminations for the way the Haylich Kingdom operated.

“She loved Alpar too much to let it go after fighting for it.” A voice came from behind, shaking Leonard out of his grief.

Turning around, he was faced with an elegant young man in priestly robes. His white cape with the golden trim covered his darker clothes, while the golden diamond affixed to his chest named him as one of the Temple of the Holy Light’s vicars. He had a handsome face, with clean, parted dark hair and intense brown eyes that were scrunched in worry.

“I know. She was too fixated on the idea of helping with the recovery of this town to leave. It’s one of the reasons I loved her.” Leonard answered, a sad smile worming its way on his elegant features.

“Belinda was the kind of person never to leave an unfinished project behind. You should know, you were her favorite one.” Vicar Damien said, turning his gaze to the grave.

A small chuckle rumbled through the graveyard, and Leonard was surprised to realize it came from him. For the last two days, he had felt nothing but grief. It had been so all-consuming that he had wondered if he was doomed to be forever caught in its grasp. But it seemed that even just Belinda’s memory was enough to save him once more.

“I was a mess when she found me, that’s true. I had been fighting the Incursion for two years by then, and there didn’t seem to be an end to the creatures that could spawn from the Void. She showed me there was more to life than constant, relentless slaughter.” He eventually said, thinking back to the long period that followed his arrival in this world. Years of training with the Whiteguard had turned him into a Master tier fighter in record time, but nothing had been able to fill the empty space in his heart. Not until her.

“In doing so, she saved us all. Without the Hero there to fight for us, the Void would have reached far beyond Hetnia’s borders. Hassel would have fallen had you not been there.” Damien replied. He would know, having spent every waking hour of his day healing the soldiers returning from the provincial capital's frontlines. “And beyond that, she heavily contributed to the fight herself. Maybe not in as flashy a way as you, but her scouting skills allowed thousands to flee from the voidlings.”

Leonard nodded, golden hair swishing with the movement. The reason she caught his attention was the sheer grit the relatively weak woman exhibited. That she had initially been a slave and only been freed after signing a binding contract to serve on the frontlines for as long as the Incursion continued had been the first hint that the new world he found himself in was not as nice as the Royal Court made him believe. “She would have offered her services even without being forced. She was just that good of a person.” He replied, sighing wistfully as he turned to look at her grave.

White marble would not have been her first choice, he knew. She would have liked to be allowed to decompose in the ground. But the number of deaths that the Incursion had caused had made cremation a necessity, lest the graveyards start spawning undead.

Damien, being a talented and attentive vicar with access to Expert tier holy magic, would not have allowed it, but the laws were still active, and no exception could be made until they were amended.

A long moment of silence passed until the priest gathered his courage to say something. “It’s not good for you, being here for too long. I know I won’t get through to you if Amelia hasn’t convinced you, but you should look after yourself. Hero or not, you just went through something traumatic.”

Leonard sighed again, though a small smile tugged at his lips. “She didn’t even try yet. Amelia is not the kind of person to fight a losing battle. She’ll find the perfect moment to convince me. But until then, I will keep my vigil. The third day is almost done anyway.” It wasn’t like he was trying to hurt himself. Leonard just needed to be here in a foolish attempt to grasp the last essence of his greatest love.

After this is done, I will need to face the consequences. What happened cannot go unanswered. But for the moment, I just want to be here for her.

Shoulders slumping, Damien nodded in defeat. He was smart enough to know that Leonard wouldn’t budge, and his duties were never-ending anyway. There was always someone sick in the slums that had grown outside Alpar, and if he didn’t tend to them, they would all weigh on Old Lia and her gaggle of mages.

The third day’s dawn had just broken, and Leonard finally allowed himself to step back from the grave. His vigil had been difficult, but it had allowed him the time he needed to sort the worst of his feelings out. He still wanted to rage, to call upon the mighty power that resided within him and force the world to suffer for his loss, but that rage had cooled.

Leonard lifted his hair from his eyes, pushing them back. His green gaze swept over the rest of the cemetery, and he couldn’t help but draw comparisons.

Belinda’s grave was as spotless as when it was first laid, having been enchanted directly by him to be impervious to damage. It shimmered in the morning light, the pristine stone reflecting the barest hint of the purity of the woman it contained. It would remain like that for eternity unless a fourth-tier ability was used on it.

Why exactly anyone would want to desecrate the grave of a woman who had spent her life working for others, he didn’t know, but it was better to be safe than sorry.

The rest of the graveyard was in much worse condition. Despite Damien’s and his congregation’s best efforts. And since the town now served as one of the main refugee camps in Hetnia, the number of duties they had had also swelled with the population.

There must be about five to six thousand people outside the walls by now. I don’t understand what the Royal Court is doing after all this time. I closed the last rift four months ago. They should have been already well into their reconstruction efforts, but it increasingly seems they have no intention of touching the southern lands.

“With the way things are going, they might just be hoping Hammerfest starts sending raiders here to enslave everyone. It would probably solve their problem better than they can.” Leonard muttered to himself, finally turning around to leave the graveyard with one last, long look at where his better half would reside for eternity.

The cool air would have been downright uncomfortable had he still been as weak as he was when he had been summoned, but the training the Whiteguard had put him through and the long years of the campaign against the Void had transformed Leonard. Where at his arrival, he was a baseline human, with the weakness that entailed, his body was now made of corded muscle, his every movement capable of shattering his surroundings if he wasn’t careful.

His first class, Hero, had only been the beginning. From there, Leonard kept growing, surpassing barriers his teachers didn’t know existed. His Heroic Blessing, the skill that distinguished Heroes from the average being, allowed him to perceive the invisible System that governed these lands. It made his growth unstoppable. And yet, all that power had meant nothing when the woman he most loved needed him.

His spiraling thoughts were interrupted as four men approached. Their clinking armor identified them as members of the local garrison if the presence of Sir Gerard Dortmund leading them wasn’t enough. They all wore the same set, which was meticulously kept clean, despite the hard times the Corps in the most derelict of the provinces, Hetnia, were going through in the aftermath of the Incursion.

“Sir Gerard.” Leonard greeted, inclining his head toward the commander of the 105th Army Corp. Rather than answer back, however, the man only grunted grimly.

He had the look of someone being forced to do something they really didn’t want to do, but who would still go through with it, if only because it was an order from a superior.

Leonard had seen the same look many times during the Incursion, as soldiers sacrificed themselves to grant fleeing civilians the time needed to reach safety. That a man he respected like Sir Gerard would wear such a face meant that things were dire.

Before he could ask, the three men accompanying the captain fanned out, covering most retreats. They couldn’t stop Leonard if he wanted to keep walking, but out of respect for the knight leading them, he stopped and waited for an explanation.

“Leonard Weiss, Hero and commander of the Heroic Party. You are under arrest for suspicions of the murder of one Belinda Tholum, a ranger in the service of the realm, through the use of poison. Do not resist, or we will use force. In consideration for your services to the kingdom, you have been granted an attorney whom you’ll be allowed to consult once we take you to the courthouse. I suggest you keep silent until then.”

Anything beyond the accusation went completely unheard as Leonard allowed himself to be taken and marched away. He could have torn the men holding him apart with a twitch, but he didn’t. He couldn’t. His mind kept looping, struggling to understand what he had heard.

Deep within him, something broke.

Chapter 2 - Don't Bother the Sleeping Giant - Leonard 2

Leonard sighed. He still couldn’t get used to the stench of decay and despair that permeated his small cell. Just the thought of its previous inhabitants made his fists clench in anger.

The stone underfoot was cold and uneven, worn smooth by the countless feet that had trudged the same path to misery. Dim light filtered through the tiny, barred windows, casting long shadows that seemed to dance mockingly around him.

Three other souls shared this purgatory. They sat apart from one another, each lost in their private hell. Their faces were etched with the lines of exhaustion, eyes dull and unfocused, staring into the void as if looking through the walls that confined them. They made no sound, no movement to acknowledge Leonard's presence. In their silence, there was a profound resignation, a surrender to the fate that awaited them all in this forsaken place.

The air was thick with the tang of salt from the sea and something else - something darker, more pungent. It smelled of fear and decay, of bodies left too long without the sun's cleansing light. The walls, once perhaps proud and strong, were now cracked and leaking, covered in patches of dampness that spread like a plague.

That actual people were being subjected to these conditions without any shred of evidence of their wrongdoing would have once been enough to shock Leonard. Unfortunately, he had seen enough in the years spent in Haylich that nothing would surprise him anymore.

Perhaps it was precisely this that led me to be here. I’ve gotten used to the way things were and have stopped fighting back against the status quo. There were always more important things to do, a new push from the forces of the Void to counter, a new skill to master. I allowed myself to become distracted from the festering corruption and poverty that haunts this land.

The fact that a decent man like Gerard had been forced to arrest him made this all even more apparent. Now that the haze of grief had been forcefully ripped from his eyes, Leonard was able to see things clearly.

Someone in Mellassoria, Haylich’s capital, had tampered with his mail. It had to be someone with significant power in the Royal Court, too, as they had managed to get their hands on some Void’s Dew, a strictly controlled substance.

Not that it narrows it down much. That city is a pit of vipers, and anyone with enough pull could have done this. They might not necessarily be my enemies and have only done this to make the blame fall on somebody else.

Belinda’s life would be nothing but a footnote to many of those people. His exile to Alpar had been caused by a prolonged season of the Diet, which couldn’t get enough votes for anything, not even to grant him citizenship. This meant that, as he technically wasn’t granted legal provisions, he risked being arrested despite having fought for years against the Incursion.

The king himself, His Majesty Vasily Daniel of Haylich, had suggested that he take some time away from the capital to relax after the war's end while he wrangled the Diet into accepting his decree. Leonard had never trusted the man, but he had allowed it, not wanting to spend more time than necessary in Mellassoria.

This means that anyone from the King to a minor lordling could be the one to have tampered with my mail. Not even that would solve the question entirely, as someone else could have allowed them to get their hands on the Void’s Dew.

The capital’s convoluted politics had been one of the reasons why Leonard had been all too happy to leave it behind and spend some time with Belinda. He had developed many grudges with the administration while fighting on the frontlines, from the big ones - the institution of slavery was absolutely revolting to him, but was considered a fact of life to the natives - to the small ones - requesting supplies for a push into lost territory needed to pass through several Junior Ministers before it could be approved by the Senior, significantly delaying the advances.

“I see that you have woken up from your fugue.” A warm, honey-like female voice interrupted his thoughts, making Leonard shift on his cot to greet one of his few remaining friends.

“Amelia, I see that you have heard of my fate.” He said in lieu of an answer.

Before him stood a woman who could have rightly been called drop-dead gorgeous in his old world. In this one, where the masses were often unwashed and sick, she was beyond stunning. Tall, with long legs and even longer inky black hair. Elegant lashes framed purple, smoldering eyes. Milky skin was accentuated by the low-cut midnight dress that reached her ankles. She wore a black mourning veil over her face, but Amelia Barks was still a vision of otherworldly beauty that had captured many hearts, even in the most challenging moments of the campaign against the Void.

That such a vision of perfection was paired with the incredible power of the strongest Spirit Channeler of the kingdom only made her more enticing to many. To Leonard, she was a good, honest friend. He had fought alongside her for years after she had been recruited for the Heroic Party, and he knew her to be a faithful companion.

She had been the only one to accompany him into the depths of hell when they reached the origin of the Incursion, after all. If he could trust anyone in this cutthroat world, it was Amelia.

In the time it had taken Leonard to shake himself from his contemplations and stand up, the woman had put to sleep the two guards waiting outside and the three poor sods that had kept him company.

“I was afraid I’d have to kick you around a bit before you woke up, but I can see that some of your old flame has sparked up.” She commented silkily, the rusted iron lock keeping his cell closed opening with a click at the passage of her finger.

Leonard silently watched his friend look around the small room with evident disgust and couldn’t help a slight chuckle, “Not exactly what you’d think they’d offer to the Hero who saved the country, huh?”

“I never thought much of him, but Judge Eichelbaum is even pettier than my expectations,” Amelia replied, referencing the man nominally in charge of Alpar since its lord died during the Incursion. A replacement had been promised months before, but it didn’t seem to be coming anytime soon, and the rat-faced judge was enjoying every day he could get out of his unchallenged rule over the town.

“He never liked me, so it doesn’t surprise me he’d take the chance to make me suffer. He might even believe me guilty, considering just how hateful he is.” Leonard replied, knowing that his and Amelia’s presence in the town were the only two checks left on the man’s authority.

Amelia sighed, sitting gracefully on the cot and considering Leonard with a sad gaze, “You still believe the best in people, as always.”

Leonard cocked his head, silently asking her to elaborate further.

After a moment, she did so. “There are three paladins stationed in the courthouse at this moment, waiting for your trial to start. A high-tier slave collar has been brought in from the capital, too. As you might imagine, this level of coordination and promptness means that the current situation was at least expected, if not directly arranged.”

A loud bang startled Leonard out of the blind rage that had overcome him, and he realized that he was the cause, as his left hand was now deeply buried into the stone wall, having penetrated it all the way through. He freed his hand with a sigh, light flooding in from the outside through the new hole.

“I expected something like this, so I cast a [Silence] over the prison,” Amelia reassured him from her perch, not having batted an eye at the display.

Breathing deeply, Leonard forced his brain to work. The Royal Court knew he was powerful, likely even that he was stronger than the average Hero that was summoned every century or so, having access to those records. Those usually plateaued at Champion tier, and he knew the First Lance suspected him of being above that. But was it possible they had enough information to know he’d survive the Void’s Dew?

They might have suspected it. Or the person who sent it might not even have known just how strong of a poison it is. It’s not like many people bother accessing the more obscure studies on this matter. That means they took a shot to see what would happen and sent the Paladins to clean up whatever mess was left over. But this narrows the list down a lot. No Junior Minister or minor lordling has the authority to send three fully-fledged paladins anywhere, much less all the way south to a small town like Alpar.

“I see you got it,” Amelia sighed. “I don’t like gloating,” she lied, “but I told you this would happen. Well, not that they would go so far as killing Belinda, but I told you months ago, when you first informed me of the Diet’s problems with your status, that they would try their best to get rid of you. And that many might pay the price.”

Leonard didn’t particularly enjoy her tone, but he knew she was right. He bowed his head in apology, something that even the king hadn’t seen, “You were right. I’m sorry. My foolishness led to exactly what you predicted, and now Belinda is dead because of it.”

Amelia’s eyes softened, and she placed a perfectly manicured hand on his cheek. “Just remember that it’s not your fault. You made a mistake, but the people who placed the poison in your tea are still out there. And they will do anything they can to get rid of you, whether that is enslaving you with a collar meant to rid you of your powers or killing all those dear to you.”

Leonard’s face hardened, and he nodded. “Yes, they are still out there. I’ll need to deal with these paladins and EIchelbaum first, but it’s time that things begin to change around here. I’ve allowed them too much leeway, and this is the consequence.”

A small smile of satisfaction crossed Amelia’s fine features before she covered it, using the dark veil to hide, “As long as you know that every action has its consequences, you know I’ll follow you.”

“Thank you. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” Leonard sighed.

All at once, a cacophony of sound from the outside echoed through the previously silent prison. Unintelligible shouts, cries, and screams told the story of dozens, if not hundreds, of people gathering outside the courthouse, vivaciously protesting something.

Seeing his confused look, Amelia patted his cheek one last time before withdrawing her hand, “You didn’t think that the good and honest people of Alpar would allow their Hero to be treated like this without protesting, did you?”

Leonard blinked before a rueful smile crossed his features. His green eyes seemingly lost some of the darkness that had overtaken them since the death of his beloved. “Yes, the people have a good heart.” He murmured, looking through the hole he had unwittingly created at the crowd gathering outside.

“Think about what will happen to them, too, will you?” Amelia said before dusting off her immaculate dress and clapping once, shadows pooling at her feet as her summon, a Shadewalker answered her call. “I have some things I need to do now, but you know I’ll support you no matter what you choose. Just make sure you are committed because there is no going back after this.”

“There was no going back the moment someone killed Belinda,” Leonard answered without looking at her, eyes already fixed on the upper floor.

“Good.” Amelia’s whisper was lost in the air as she disappeared from the cell, no sign of her presence left behind save from the still-sleeping prisoners.

Chapter 3 - The Court of Velvet Fists - Amelia 1

As Amelia wandered through the streets, the bustling port town gradually gave way to the slums that stretched westward, a sprawling maze of poverty and neglect. Meager dwellings and narrow, winding alleys replaced the vibrant commerce and lively taverns of the town's center.

The cobbled path beneath her feet soon turned to dirt roads, uneven and pocked with the scars of countless footsteps. These were the forgotten parts of Alpar, where the people who had lost everything during the Incursion sought refuge.

In these slums, the houses were little more than shanties, cobbled together from whatever materials their inhabitants could scavenge. Wood, warped by the salt air, leaned precariously against haphazardly raised stone walls. Cloth curtains served as doors, fluttering in the gentle sea breeze, offering a glimpse of the lives within. Families crowded into single rooms, their belongings sparse and worn, their faces etched with the hardships of daily survival.

In Haylich, even poor farmers had decent houses. Their Blessings allowed them to build sturdy constructions, and over time, they’d get reinforced. Better even if a neighbor was a Journeyman carpenter, as their skills allowed them to put a building up in a matter of days. But the Incursion meant all that had to be left behind. It had brought a level of poverty few could escape, especially given the legal constraints on new construction outside the walls.

Despite the dire conditions, the streets were not devoid of life. Children played in narrow alleys, their laughter a defiant sound against the backdrop of poverty. Men and women went about their daily tasks with a resilience born of necessity. Their faces, marked by stoicism, reminded Amelia of her own past.

The one thing that set these slums apart from the other impoverished areas of the kingdom was that they were surprisingly clean. The dirt roads were free of refuse and excrement, a small mercy that Amelia knew resulted from the few resident mages' efforts. These mages, themselves outcasts from the more prosperous parts of Alpar, used their spells to prevent a plague outbreak. It was a thankless task.

When Amelia reached the small market plaza that had sprung up for the residents to commerce, she made a point of stopping and chatting with several of the slum's residents.

These people might not matter much in the grand scheme of things, but Leonard cares for them. If they can be made to be of use to him without getting into danger, I’m sure they will be overjoyed. Not that they will know, but the effect is the same.

When she approached, a woman’s face lit up with recognition, and she stopped hawking her wares. “M’lady, it’s wonderful to see you!”

“Lorenza, I hope you’ve had a productive day?” Amelia asked back, her lips curling in a small smile as she proffered her hand, which the woman reverently brought to her forehead.

Letting go, Lorenza shrugged. “As good as things can be here. Not that I’m complaining, mind you. I know you and the Hero have been working hard to help us, but there is only so much coin exchanging hands away from the town.”

Amelia deliberately allowed a sigh to escape her lips, “We are unfortunately limited since the rest of the kingdom seems determined to ignore your plight. And if it wasn’t enough, this last excess has made things even worse!”

Several nearby merchants who had already been paying attention to her started moving closer. “It’s true then? They’ve arrested the Hero?”

Amelia nodded solemnly, unshed tears glittering in her eyes, “The soldiers came for him during his vigil. They didn’t even allow him to finish mourning.”

Outrage spread through the plaza like wildfire. These people might not have been influential or wealthy, but they remembered who saved them. Leonard Weiss would always be the Hero to them, and the mere thought of him sitting in a cell, awaiting the judgment of a government they felt had abandoned them, stoked their anger something fierce.

“This is too much,” Lorenza said tearfully, “My poor lady, your heart must be in pieces. Losing Lady Belinda and now this.”

Amelia gave her a sad smile, dark hair failing to cover her expression and giving her an even more tragic look. “These are dark times.”

That seemed to be the thing the still-forming mob needed because several men started marching towards the town center, enflamed beyond words at her tragic suffering.

After reassuring Lorenza that she would go home and rest after taking care of one last piece of business, Amelia left the market with unhurried steps, careful to keep a satisfied smile from stretching her lips.

“You look like a constipated frog.” A feminine voice called from a nearby alley.

Amelia’s carefully composed expression of grief crumbled into a look of annoyed fondness, “If you grow another inch, you might want to sign up for the Royal Army. You certainly won’t be able to move around the old witch’s hut with how clumsy you’ve become.”

“Peh! If only the people could see you now! Not the perfect lady who suffers for their plight, are you?” A teenage girl grumbled, emerging from the shadows to stand before Amelia. She wore a simple but clean tunic and had several plants interwoven with her frizzy brown hair. Her face would have been called pretty if not for the pox marks that ruined it. Amelia knew that they were still there as an incentive by the girl’s mentor to become a better Alchemist so that she could heal them herself. She approved.

“The thing that matters is what the people see and believe. Everything else that goes on behind the curtains is not theirs to care about, Margaret.” Amelia said, resuming her walk, though at a brisker pace now that she was out of the more populated areas.

“Sometimes I wonder just how deep your and Old Lia’s schemes go, but my head starts hurting, and I stop.” The teenage apprentice grumbled, hurrying to catch up.

Amelia let out an elegant laugh, the back of her left hand raising to cover her mouth. “Keep trying, and someday you’ll be able to do more than basic poultices. It’s a good exercise, if anything.”

Unintelligible mutterings followed, but Amelia gracefully allowed the girl to go unpunished. Despite all the earlier excitement, her work had only just started. Meeting Old Lia, the ancient alchemist who ruled the underbelly of Alpar and had contacts all over the province, would be a much more delicate endeavor than convincing the already angry populace to finally direct that sentiment to the people who deserved it.

Eventually, after a few more minutes of walking, they reached a house that seemed out of place. Stout stone walls and an iron door spoke of wealth unheard in the slums, and a carefully maintained garden skirted very close to taunting the poor residents.

Surprisingly, or perhaps not if one knew the inhabitant, no one ever attempted to steal from it. Be it because they believed the rumor that a cannibalistic witch resided within or because they knew that the woman who lived there was one of the few reasons why almost no one had died of sickness in the slums, it stood untouched.

Margaret walked in without hesitation, opening the front door and ducking under a green tentacle that shot out of a nearby pot as if it were a daily occurrence.

Amelia was ignored as usual. The plants might not be sentient, but they had enough sense to avoid attacking a Champion. Sometimes, she wondered if they weren’t smarter than many humans she knew.

Lia waited for them in the sitting room, where she stood hunched over a large cauldron that was merrily bubbling away. By the pungent medical smell, Amelia believed it to be another batch of her Preventative Draught, which was responsible for the unusually good health of the people of Alpar.

“Tsk. I can see you have finally started acting on your plots by the smug look you are failing to suppress, Summoner!” The old woman barked. She had long, grey hair tied in a loose braid behind her back. A blue cowl covered her shoulders, made of a shiny material Amelia knew to be non-reactive to alchemical reagents. A green tartan dress was below it, embroidered at the cuffs with enchanted strips of leather and small gems, which provided protection from accidents. Her hands, nose and feet were the only things that betrayed her Demi-human status, but Old Lia had long since achieved a unique position in the society of rejects around them, and no one cared if she was a hobgoblin.

“I must start working on my expressions again if I have become this readable,” Amelia responded casually, taking a seat on the large sofa before the cauldron.

Lia sighed, giving her a baleful glare for her cheek before turning to address her apprentice, “Get some things from the pantry and go visit Oliver, girl. The Light knows he’ll starve himself with his mentor in jail. I’d be surprised if that boy even bothered to sleep since the funeral, and his mother hasn’t been able to keep him home since he got his first Blessing.”

“Last I saw him, his mother and sister had wrangled him back home after stopping him from storming the courthouse by himself. He’s probably still there.” Amelia chipped in, getting a distracted thanks from the teenage girl, who scurried away, knowing better than to delay in the hopes of overhearing anything.

Once the door was shut behind her, Amelia felt the wards around the house flare up, a [Silence] spell coming into being to shield them alongside the more complex [Protection from Divination].

“So, the time has come.” The old hobgoblin said, turning off the fire below the cauldron with a wave of her hand and coming to sit before Amelia.

“As we expected, they couldn’t suffer Leonard’s continued presence. His being in the capital was difficult, as they had to tiptoe around him with their shady dealings, but sending him away was worse. I wouldn’t be surprised if the order to kill him came directly from the king.” Amelia answered.

The gems hanging from Old Lia’s wrists tinkled as she rubbed her hands together, “I see you are really committed to going all in if you are this open about it.”

“What else is there to do? They have gone too far now. Even I didn’t expect them to attempt to assassinate him from the beginning. I was ready for harassment of all kinds, but this… Leonard is, unfortunately, a pure soul, and the loss of Belinda will continue to hurt him in the long term. But he knows things cannot remain as they are now.” Amelia answered, her beautiful face twisted in a glower.

“You are correct, of course. It’s pretty obvious that the Royal Court only cares for the ‘good’ provinces. They have left us to rot. That they would attempt to kill the Hero who saved the kingdom not even half a year ago just shows that they cannot be saved from themselves.” The alchemist responded.

“We need to start laying the foundations. Our agents will need to become more active, and our resources should be available at any time we might need them.” Amelia continued as if she hadn’t heard, too tied up in her vision. “We’ll need to wait until Leonard decides what form our reaction will take, but any option should be on the table.”

Lia grinned, a cruel thing that would have sent shivers down any knight’s spine. “Then we have a lot of work to do. Alpar is easy enough and needs little active work, but the nearby towns will require a more direct hand to be ripe for harvest.”

She might be decrepit, but she’s competent like few others. And she already has a network of spies all over the province made of her old apprentices and their families. She’s not magically powerful, but she wields her own form of might.

The two women settled down for the long haul. Planning would necessarily need to remain vague, since Leonard would have the last word on anything, but they could already begin to make some moves. Place a few of their people around those who might be called to answer unrest.

They had concentrated on gathering interesting snippets from all levels of society thus far, but now that things were heating up, the nobles and military ranks would receive their attention. Whether they wanted it or not.

Chapter 4 - Uneven Scales - Leonard 3

The courtroom’s heavy doors swung open. Soon, Leonard found himself pushed into a world far removed from the dank confines of his prison cell.

The chamber was vast, its high ceilings adorned with rich, intricate tapestries that depicted scenes of justice and valor from the kingdom's storied past. King Vasily’s father, Yon, holding back an army of nomads at Death’s Door in Garva; The First King, Vladimir, expelling the last of Eturia’s forces back over the northern border.

Space had been made for another large banner, and Leonard realized with bitter humor that it would likely depict a scene from the campaign against the Void, which he had led.

The air was filled with the scent of polished wood and wax emanating from the rows of benches that filled the space, leading up to the imposing judge's dais at the far end. Sunlight streamed through the tall, arched windows, casting a solemn light across the room and illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. It was almost impossible to believe that it could coexist with the destitution of the slums. And yet it did.

Dominating the courtroom were the three paladins sent from the capital Amelia had warned him of. Their presence was an unmistakable sign of the entire system’s complicity with the ongoing farce.

Clad in their gleaming armor, they stood like sentinels, their faces obscured behind helmets that bore the kingdom's emblem: a griffin in mid-flight. Even in the hushed atmosphere of the courtroom, the power and authority they exuded were palpable. Their intimidating presence would have been enough to send any guilty man into despair.

It’s a good thing I’m not just any man, then. I didn’t face the Avatar of the Void just for three spoiled nobles with some talent for the sword to make me bend.

Despite the storm brewing within him, Leonard allowed the prison guard and his lawyer to lead him to the accused’s bench.

His lawyer was a man who seemed to embody the antithesis of confidence. Wishy-washy and slimy, he fidgeted with his papers, his suit ill-fitting and his hair slicked back in an attempt at respectability. His eyes darted around the room, avoiding Leonard's gaze as if the situation was too much for him to bear.

The man had arrived only five minutes before and insisted they needed to hurry and that there was no time to discuss things, even though the law clearly stated that any man was entitled to freely speak with their lawyer without unreasonable time constraints.

So hurried he was, Leonard hadn’t been allowed to wash nor change the clothes he had been wearing since the funeral four days before. It was just another insult that he bore with stoicism, not allowing anything of his feelings to show.

If Leonard hadn’t already known the whole thing to be rigged, that would have been enough to clue him in. It took little imagination to realize that the man had been bought off long ago. His anxiety likely stemmed from the fact that, despite the enchanted handcuffs currently holding him, Leonard was still a good seven inches taller, and his reputation as a Hero indicated he’d be able to strangle him long before the guards could intervene.

Few others were present. Only Eichelbaum’s court of sycophants and a few of Alpar’s minor nobility - people barely above peasants in the eyes of the great powers but who still took pains to distinguish themselves from the masses - had decided to show up. Only one friendly face was present, and Leonard took heart in the fact that people like Vicar Damien still existed.

The fall of a Hero was a fascinating sight, but the protests that could faintly be heard from the outside likely had stymied any enthusiasm. Technically, they were in no danger with the Paladins there. But everyone knew better than to underestimate the man known for charging headfirst into teeming masses of voidlings without hesitation.

The murmurs and whispers that had filled the room as Leonard was led in fell silent as Judge Ronald Eichelbaum made his entrance. The short man was a pernicious figure, his demeanor exuding an air of arrogant entitlement. Mousy in appearance, with gold-rimmed glasses perched precariously on the bridge of his big nose, Judge Eichelbaum moved with an assuredness that spoke of his unchallenged authority in this domain. His robes, though immaculate and no doubt expensive enough to feed a family for a year, seemed to swallow his slight frame, adding an air of comical grandeur to his presence.

Flanking him were Sir Gerard and two other members of the local 105th Corp, their uniforms crisp and their expressions stern. They seemed to be doing their best to appear as neutral enforcers of the law, but Leonard knew the captain well enough to sense his disdain for the proceedings. As they took their positions, the air in the courtroom grew heavier, the anticipation of the trial's commencement palpable.

With a grandiose gesture, Judge Eichelbaum called the court into session. The sound of his gavel striking the wooden block resonated through the chamber. "We are gathered here today," he began, his voice carrying a tone of self-importance, "to address the grave allegations against Leonard Weiss, former Commander of the Royal Heroic Party, accused of the heinous murder of Belinda Tholum.”

A murmur of orchestrated shock rippled through Eichelbaum's court despite the well-known nature of the allegations prior to the trial. "The accused," Eichelbaum continued, adjusting his glasses with a flourish, "was found at the scene of the crime and admitted to his presence at the time of Miss Tholum's unfortunate demise.”

Leonard clenched his jaw, maintaining his stoic facade as the judge painted him in the darkest light possible. "Given the impossibility of tampering with the royal mail, due to our kingdom's magical safeguards, it leaves us with no alternative but to conclude that Mr. Weiss alone could have administered the poison found in Miss Tholum's tea.”

The judge then turned his gaze towards Leonard's lawyer, a simpering excuse for a defender who seemed already resigned to his client's fate. "Does the defense have anything to say in light of these allegations?”

The lawyer gave Leonard one last look, his hands visibly trembling, and rose to his feet. Instead of denying the accusations or presenting any substantial defense, he meekly pleaded for leniency. "Your Honor, my client has served the country with distinction. Given his previous good behavior and the service rendered to our kingdom, I humbly request that the court consider a reduced sentence."

He’s not even trying to defend me? I should have expected as much. The depths these people are willing to go to never fail to surprise me.

From the spectator's rafters, Vicar Damien stood abruptly. "This is injustice!" he protested, his voice echoing in the otherwise silent courtroom. "Leonard loved Belinda too much to-”

"Silence!" Judge Eichelbaum cut him off, slamming his gavel down with force. "Any further interruptions will be met with imprisonment. This court will not tolerate such outbursts.”

It seems that even the Edicts of Justice are nothing to these people. The kingdom has truly lost its way. I always considered it a somewhat backward place, but ever since I started studying its history, I realized it wasn’t always like this. People of all social strata used to be able to trust the institutions. This is a macabre parody of what it used to be.

The tension in the courtroom was palpable as Eichelbaum’s threat hung in the air. The small man wielded his power with glee and seemed more than ready to use it on anyone who gave him an excuse.

In an attempt to regain control and steer the proceedings back to his orchestrated narrative, the judge called Gerard to the stand. "Captain Gerard Dortmund, you have served alongside the accused for years. Based on your extensive experience and knowledge of his character, do you believe Leonard Weiss could commit such a vile act against his fiancée?" The question, loaded and leading, hung heavy in the air, a palpable expectation for an affirmative answer to seal Leonard's fate.

Unfortunately for him, not everyone could be brought as low as the filth he rolled in. Gerard Dortmund was a man of honor whose integrity was a fundamental part of his being. And so he did the unthinkable. He stood firm. "No, your honor, I do not," he answered, his voice resonating with conviction. "I've known Sir Leonard to be a man of outstanding character, courage, and dedication. Not only to his duty but to those he holds dear. The man I know could not, and would not, commit such an act.”

This unexpected defiance seemed to catch Judge Eichelbaum off guard, his face contorting with anger. "Captain, I advise you to consider your position and the implications of your testimony! Sticking your neck out for a man who is, for all intents and purposes, already condemned might not be in your best interest.”

Leonard barely contained a startled laugh. It seemed Eichelbaum was so sure of his grip over the court - and likely already anticipating the power he’d wield over Alpar with his greatest opponent gone - that he didn’t see any issue being so open with his threats.

Still, he caught Gerard's eyes, offering a reassuring smile. It was a small gesture but one loaded with gratitude and solidarity. For a reason Leonard couldn't fathom, this seemed to worry Gerard even more, a flicker of deeper concern passing through his gaze.

Gathering himself after the outburst, the judge turned to the paladins. "Bring forth the surprise," he commanded, his voice regaining its earlier smugness. With a dramatic flair, the closest one walked to the back of the room, gathering an ornate box in his hands before returning to stand before the judge. He then presented the “surprise” to the perusal of all: it was unmistakably a high-level slavery collar.

The courtroom erupted in murmurs of scandal and disbelief as the monstrous object was placed for all to see. The collar was no ordinary restraint; it was a dark, ominous band, its surface pulsing with malevolent energy. Leonard knew it was designed to strip a person of their Light, rendering anyone powerless.

The first time he had seen such an object after arriving in the new world, he had immediately destroyed it in a fit of disgust, and even the Royal Family knew better than to test him with their presence, always being careful to only use servants and not slaves when he was around.

Leonard saw Damien whiten at the sight. It was well known that the Temple didn’t like the devices, seeing them as a blasphemous creation meant to spread suffering and the Void’s influence. Unfortunately, the slave trade was too powerful in Haylich to get rid of them. It was an open secret that some of the more corrupt priests made use of them away from public sight.

For someone of Leonard's stature, a hero who had faced down the armies of the Void and emerged victorious, nothing less than a collar of the highest potency would suffice. The fact that it had likely been crafted using the remains of a voidling Leonard had personally slain added a grotesque irony to the situation.

And there it is. I have to admit that for a moment when Amelia told me of their plans, I didn’t believe her. Even for someone as low as Eichelbaum, this seems too much. But filth will do as filth is. Not that that thing would work for me, but there is no chance in hell that I will allow it to touch me.

With an air of anticipation, Eichelbaum explained, “In light of the grave threat posed by the accused, His Majesty’s Keeper of the Seals has authorized the use of this collar to ensure the safety of the realm. It is a measure reserved for those whose abilities could undermine the very fabric of our society, and no one can deny the harm this man could do if left unchecked.”

The Keeper of the Seals, huh? That worm would never act without Prime Minister Nevielle’s approval. It seems a bit too amateurish for him, but I suppose the paladins are here to make sure nothing goes wrong. Well, whatever their plans might be, they went too far. I admit my mistake in allowing this farce to continue this long. I should have killed them all the moment I crossed into Champion tier. But I still have a chance to make them pay. And this time, I won’t let anyone stop me.

Chapter 5 - A Chessboard Upended - Leonard 4

Having shown the slave collar to the courtroom, Eichelbaum had made it plain for everyone to see where he was taking the trial.

In another flagrant abuse of the Edicts of Justice, Leonard was never called to the stand to defend himself. He didn’t protest, as he knew it would simply play into the farce.

At one point, after Leonard gestured to his lawyer to answer an accusation, the judge gave something resembling an answer as to why. “The accused will refrain from influencing the works. As you are not a citizen of the Kingdom of Haylich, even just receiving a trial is done out of courtesy and appreciation for your previous efforts. That privilege can be taken away very quickly if you try my patience again.”

That was the last time Leonard was directly addressed. Inexorably, the trial reached its end. Eichelbaum seemed somewhat disappointed he hadn’t been allowed to punish anyone, but there was also a dark satisfaction there.

He seems to think everything will go as he wants. Is he just that stupid, or is there another surprise waiting? The paladins are no concern, and the collar would be useless on me. My connection to the Light is not something that such a flimsy artifact can remove. I suppose it’s just that he has incorrect information. The Royal Court believes me to be just a more powerful paladin, so it would make sense for them to treat me as such.

The bang of the gravel brought Leonard back to reality. Judge Eichelbaum stood, his expression betraying a grotesque amusement as he prepared to deliver the final verdict.

“Having examined the evidence presented before this court," He began, his voice ringing out with cold, merciless clarity, "and in light of the accused's inability to provide a substantial defense, it is the judgment of this court that Leonard Weiss is guilty of the murder of Belinda Tholum.”

Silence filled the court as everyone craned their heads to see how he’d react.

Outside, the noise of protests had swelled to a crescendo, the voices of the people breaking through the courtroom's silencing enchantments in a defiant roar against the sham of justice unfolding within. Leonard stood stoically, his face a mask of resolve. He wouldn’t give them any satisfaction.

"Given the severity of the crime and the danger the accused poses to the kingdom," Eichelbaum continued, his voice laced with a venomous glee, "I hereby sentence Leonard Weiss to a lifetime of slavery, to be enforced with the use of this high-level collar." He gestured to the paladins, who stepped forward, the artifact in hand. Its dark surface seemed to absorb the light around it.

Despite having known the outcome since the collar was revealed, the spectators still exploded in shocked exclamations. Even those who had come to revel in Leonard’s downfall hadn’t expected such a harsh sentence for a man revered as the Hero by so many.

Vicar Damien looked at the proceedings darkly, and if Leonard knew him at all, he was already plotting a way to bring retribution to all those involved.

Gerard was expressionless, but the clenching and unclenching of his hands showed his emotions.

Amelia’s absence was felt keenly. She would have likely found a way to arrest the proceedings had she been present. But Leonard was well aware that his oldest friend in Haylich had written off the entire affair and decided to focus on preparing for what came next. She trusted him to handle himself.

As the paladins advanced, the collar in hand, a palpable tension filled the air. All eyes were on Leonard, watching for his reaction, wondering if this would be the moment he would break, unleash his fury, or somehow escape the fate that awaited him. Leonard's gaze, however, remained fixed on the first paladin, a silent challenge in his eyes.

The man seemed indifferent to the whole affair through his shiny mithril helm. He had to have completed the entire cursus honorum to reach such a position. From humble squire to knight, he was named Paladin after demonstrating sufficient ability with Holy Magic and talent on the battlefield. Leonard could feel his mana churning in preparation. He was an Expert, having received his third blessing.

It wasn’t a position one could reach simply because of privilege. Leonard had worked with many during the Incursion and found the majority to be well-learned men and women devoted to their cause of spreading the Light and enforcing the law. However, whether their understanding of the divine was correct, or the law was just, was not their concern.

The most common stereotype of those who wielded Holy Magic was that they were stuck in their ways. Holy Magic might have been a lesser use of the Light, but it was what was available to the vast majority. It required just a strong will and faith. Some study to channel mana was required, of course, but most Temples provided that to anyone who demonstrated talent for free. It had, however, the side effect of producing some very stubborn people.

The paladins finally reached Leonard. The two shorter ones fanned out around him in a textbook maneuver to prevent any attempt to break out. The taller one reached out with the collar, opening its latch and moving to close it around his neck. Leonard remained motionless, his expression serene until the very last second.

The moment the collar made contact with Leonard's skin, it disintegrated in a blinding flash of light, overwhelmed before it could even activate.

A column of pure Light erupted from Leonard, sending the three paladins flying back, breaking through the roof and reaching the sky. It filled the courtroom with its radiance. The intensity was overwhelming, driving everyone to shield their eyes and turning the orderly proceedings into chaos.

A low hum rumbled through the town of Alpar, silencing everyone, from the protesters outside the courtroom to the slaves toiling in the fields. From the merchants hawking their wares to the shady dealers in the slums. They all stopped as one to look at the glorious sight.

The pillar of light was the greatest example of divinity any of them had ever witnessed. Nothing could compare.

A beautiful woman stopped her preparations, a genuine smile blossoming on her lips as she beheld the Light. It was enough to drive a painter to madness in an attempt to recreate it.

Only rarely did the Holy Light manifest itself directly. It was usually a moment of great rejoicing for any community this happened to, as it meant one of their own had been blessed. They would significantly advance in their craft and know they had the approval of the heavens.

But those occurrences were limited to a soft glow that lasted a few seconds. It was perceptible by almost everyone, as the Light didn’t hide, but even the most extreme cases were not a fraction of what they were witnessing.

For a whole minute, the Holy Light descended from the heavens. Alpar, the Darkwood surrounding it, and the southern sea stopped to bow to it.

When it finally disappeared, everyone was left with a powerful feeling of righteousness. Whatever had happened to incite such a miracle, it had the wholehearted approval of the heavens. A procession began then, as everyone started walking towards the origin of the miracle.

Inside the courtroom, the scene was almost unrecognizable. The three paladins were bent down, their heads almost smashed against the floor. They were reciting prayers furiously, thanking the Light for showing them the way.

The spectators were barely starting to recover. They groaned, holding each other steady as they tried to process what they had witnessed. Vicar Damien had jumped over the railing and was on his knees, tears of happiness streaming down his cheeks. His smile was one of pure elation.

Judge Eichelbaum had hidden himself behind his chair and was weeping softly.

The 105th's soldiers, made of sterner stuff than the average man, had managed to retain their coherence. They still seemed entirely unsure as to what to do, looking at their Captain for direction. Gerard was too busy looking at the man who started it all to care.

Leonard finally moved. He ignored his foaming lawyer and the rapturous paladins and walked forward. His steps were assured and inevitable. He reached the raised bench and waited until Eichelbaum stopped crying.

“It would seem that not everyone agrees with you,” Leonard said.

His simple words were enough for the judge to focus. The man took a deep breath, steadying himself on his fallen chair as he stood up. Even from his raised position, he needed to look up at Leonard, a fact that seemed to give him no pleasure. “I don’t know what devilry you employed to fake the Light, Weiss, but it doesn’t change anything. You are a criminal in the whole kingdom, and that’s final.”

Leonard’s face finally showed emotion. A half smile graced his fine features as his eyes bore into the little man before him, “Nothing can shake a self-righteous man from their path. Not even the truth,” He said, repeating one of the more common sayings shared among the Temples, “It seems that you are simply incapable of understanding. Very well, I will employ different methods.”

Just as Leonard raised his right hand to reach for the judge, another grabbed his arm. Unsurprised, he looked at Gerard, who had been the one to stop him, “You would defend him even after all he has said and done?”

The Captain of the 105th evidently struggled with himself before answering, “My personal opinion on him does not influence that he’s still a judge in the rightful employment of his Majesty’s government. I cannot allow harm to befall upon him.” Gerard wore a conflicted expression. He was a just man, and being forced to defend a creature as foul as Eichelbaum from a friend didn’t sit well with him, but he still adhered to his duty.

Looking into his eyes, Leonard knew that he could push him. He could force the situation and make Gerard back down. But rather than doing that, he acquiesced with a smile, “The time when you’ll need to make a choice is coming soon, my friend. Lines are being redrawn, and things will change quickly. I will not begrudge your decision, but you must make one.”

With that, Leonard turned away. He was quickly joined by Damien, who walked a step behind him and left the courtroom without a second look for its occupants, who were still reeling from what had happened.

They walked through the courthouse’s corridors without talking, their steps echoing in the silent hallways. Leonard was unsurprised that Damien didn’t question him. Despite being full of curiosity, the man knew when to keep his silence.

The shouts and protestations from the outside had transformed into something much different. An anticipatory rumble filtered through the open window. The crowd had significantly swelled, and more people could be seen approaching.

“It seems like everyone is coming.” Damien finally broke the silence.

“I would be more surprised if they didn’t. I doubt any of them have ever seen anything like that.” Leonard answered, amused, as they finally reached the entrance.

“I doubt anyone in the kingdom has ever seen anything like that,” Damien muttered before straightening his shoulders in preparation to meet the people.

Leonard gave him a brief smile and turned towards the exit. His steps were steady and assured, his golden hair perfectly placed even after his stay in prison. His green eyes intensely directed ahead.

When he finally stepped outside, standing above the stairs that led into the courthouse, the people immediately noticed him. They stopped whatever they were doing, and a profound quiet settled over the plaza.

Leonard scanned the area and was pleased to see many familiar faces. From his squire Oliver to Margaret and many others, everyone had come to offer him their support.

Triumphantly, he lifted his right fist.

The crowd exploded in cheers.

Chapter 6 - Tea is for Plotting - Leonard 5

The sun shined brightly through sparse clouds. The sea breeze was crisp and refreshing. His enemies would get to know his wrath. Leonard felt good.

A thunderous cheer met his raised fist. The whole plaza shook with the unadulterated joy of hundreds of people who saw their Hero come unscathed out of another dangerous situation.

Walking down the last steps that separated him from the people, Leonard was met with reverent joy. Hands reached out to touch him as if seeking confirmation that he was indeed real and free. Some grasped his hands, kissing them with reverence, while others simply wanted to feel the brush of his cloak as he passed.

No one impeded his path as the crowd moved around him. Every eye he met was misted with tears drawn forth by the intense emotions the people had shouted for days. Since news of his imprisonment had spread through Alpar, a sizable number had presided over the plaza, never allowing Eichelbaum to forget what the citizens thought of his actions.

Seeing their fervent prayers answered with the majestic spectacle of the Holy Light only enflamed their hearts further. Parents pushed forward, cradling newborns in their arms, seeking his blessing for their children. Leonard obliged, his hands gentle as he bestowed a silent prayer upon each child, soft gasps escaping the people as they witnessed him call upon the Light again and again.

The people of Haylich, Leonard had learned, were not strictly religious. They worshipped no god, and the Temples served more as cultural support and healing places. Very rarely did they feel any need to express religious fervor.

This was entirely understandable in a world where time and dedication could lead almost anyone to be able to cast spells. Maybe not particularly powerful, but something far beyond what a human could expect in Leonard’s previous world.

Religion took the forefront only in three specific cases. The first and the least common, happening only once every fifty to a hundred years, was when an Incursion happened. The second, which was still far removed from anyone’s daily life, was in case of a Heresy. The last and the most well-known was when the Light manifested to grant someone a blessing. This was seen by all as an acknowledgment of someone’s efforts in their chosen field and considered a sign that they were on the righteous path.

Leonard’s ability to call upon massive amounts of Light was far beyond what the average practitioner of Holy Magic could. It was something that could be felt tangibly even by the smallfolk.

It solidified his image as something beyond the usual Hero or Saint that was occasionally summoned.

After he cleared most of the crowd, Leonard met someone familiar. A tall boy with red hair and deep blue eyes pushed through the throngs, trying his best to get closer to him. Finally, Oliver, Leonard's squire, broke through the final barrier of people, his young face streaked with tears of relief and joy. With a cry of “Sir Leonard!" he threw his arms around his mentor in a hug that conveyed more than words ever could. "I knew you'd be alright! I always trusted you!" he blubbered, his voice muffled against Leonard's cloak.

Leonard returned the embrace, allowing the boy he had taken in a few months ago - after being worn down by the collective efforts of his fiancé and Oliver’s own puppy dog eyes - to confirm that he was fine. Even in the face of such overwhelming odds, Oliver's unwavering faith was a balm to his soul.

Leonard's gaze swept over the crowd as the celebrations continued, taking in the faces of the free men and women who had come to support him. Their jubilation was a powerful force that clearly indicated the people's will to stand against the oppression looming over the town.

Yet, as his eyes searched the masses, Leonard noticed the absence of those who could not join in this moment of triumph. The slaves, those bound by chains both physical and metaphorical, were conspicuously missing, likely forced back to their labor.

A shadow passed over his features, though he didn’t allow it to linger. Things would change soon enough.

Finally disentangling himself from Oliver's grasp, Leonard caught Damien's eye and gestured subtly toward the crowd. Understanding immediately, the priest began to disperse the people gently, his voice calm but firm as he reminded them of their daily responsibilities. "Let's return to our homes and work," the vicar intoned, "Our Hero has given us a great victory today, but life must go on. We honor his fight by living our lives to the fullest." Grudgingly, the crowd began to disband, their spirits lifted by the events they had witnessed, carrying with them a renewed sense of hope and determination.

They all understood that something had shifted.

Shrugging off the embarrassment that came from a life lived in a different world with practiced ease, Leonard, accompanied by Oliver, made his way through the town toward the slums. The scenery gradually shifted from the well-maintained streets and buildings of the town's center to the more haphazardly constructed homes and narrower, winding pathways.

Before they could enter into the secondary market square, they were intercepted. Amelia stood before them, her appearance starkly contrasting to the drabness around her. Her hair, a cascade of dark waves, was pulled back from her face, revealing sharp, intelligent eyes that sparkled with mischief.

"Well, if it isn't Leonard the Outlaw," She called out, voice tinged with humor as she embraced him. She gracefully wrapped her arms around his shoulders and held him tight for a moment before releasing him with a genuine smile. “Your flair for the dramatic has yet to change," she added.

“Some things must be done in a certain way for the message to be understood. And I suspect some will still be capable of convincing themselves of the opposite.” Leonard answered amusedly. Calling upon a pillar of Light as he had done would have been impossible to all but the most powerful figures in Haylich’s history. A couple of Saints and the first Hero might have been able to do something similar if given the time to prepare. And yet, he knew Eichelbaum would continue to oppose him. Some men were simply too entrenched in their positions to ever change.

Amelia sighed, “I suspect we still have some work to do to make things right. Your mercy won’t mean anything to the crooks that run this town. Speaking of that, the old witch is waiting for us.”

Together with her, they resumed their walk. Well-wishers occasionally greeted them, but none stopped them. Reaching Old Lia’s house, Leonard placed his right hand over Oliver’s shoulder and stopped the boy in his tracks. “In the excitement, I forgot to ask. Have you checked on your family, Oliver? Your mother does her best, but she cannot work and follow your sisters around the whole day.”

The boy grimaced. It was the kind of guilty look Leonard had come to know very well. He appreciated it, as it showed just how honest Oliver was, though he wouldn’t say so to him.

“I’ll go now. I might have spent the past days plotting to infiltrate the prisons to free you.” The squire admitted, earning a laugh from his mentor.

Ruffling his hair, Leonard sent him on his way, smiling,” Then go and make sure everything is alright. You’ll find me here once you have done your job as the man of the family.”

Leonard and Amelia watched the boy scurry away before entering the alchemist’s house. As always, the smell of herbs and the sight of bubbling concoctions greeted them.

They found the old hobgoblin in her sitting room, for once devoid of bubbling cauldrons. Old Lia sat waiting, her sharp gaze fixed on the door as Leonard and Amelia entered.

She rose, her movements spry for her age, and gestured for them to sit around a low table. With a wave of her hand, a kettle levitated off a nearby stove, pouring steaming herbal tea into three cups with a precise casting of [Mage Hand]. The two humans thanked her and sipped, enjoying the refreshing brew.

"Leonard," Old Lia began without preamble, "do you already know who in the Royal Court tried to kill you?" Her bluntness, devoid of formalities, was characteristic of her straightforward nature.

Leonard smiled, appreciating her direct approach. "Thank you for your trust, Lia; I know it must have been nerve-racking to have Eichelbaum gloat about his impending victory and not do anything,” he responded, taking a sip of the tea before continuing, “To answer your question, someone very high up must have given the go-ahead to the operation. The resources needed to acquire Void’s Dew, the slave collar… it wasn't the work of a lone operator.”

Amelia pushed a strand of hair away from her eyes, “Could it have come from the king himself?”

Leonard knew she had never trusted the old king. She had her own reasons for it, which were entirely valid. But they were also too broad. Having been failed repeatedly by the nobility of Haylich, Leonard had never begrudged his friend her mistrust, and it seemed like she had been right all along.

But where she hated the king for what he represented and had no trouble assigning all kinds of heinous acts to him, Leonard had built a detailed image of Vasily Daniel of Haylich. He had gotten to know him well during his stay at the Royal Palace after he was summoned. He remembered the man who had welcomed him into this new world with open arms, who had shared his joy at studying ancient relics and the lost histories of this new world. He was also a consummate politician who had a hand in exiling him and likely wouldn’t have shed a tear at his passing.

"It's possible," he finally conceded, the words heavy on his tongue. "The king has killed his own siblings to secure his power. I wouldn't put it past him to try and remove me from the board. But I suspect it wasn’t him who put the plan together. He enjoys more convoluted scenarios.”

Lia nodded, her eyes sharp as flint. "Whether it's the king, some minister, or the Archmage of White doesn't matter now. It’s too late to go back to how things were. What's done is done, and we must look forward, not backward.”

Leonard released a deep breath and nodded in agreement “You are more right than you know. The past week was the worst I can remember in my life. Belinda was ripped from my arms by a poison so foul that even [True Resurrection] couldn’t save her. I was accused of her murder and made to wallow in the grimy bowels of a prison. But it also was useful for something.”

Amelia placed her cup down, giving him her undivided attention, sensing that he was truly opening up.

“Ever since I came to this world, I was at the mercy of the events. Things happened to me, and I reacted accordingly. I grew stronger because I needed to. I kept fighting because people would die if I did not. I ignored the suffering I saw because there was always something that needed to be done first. I was told repeatedly that I shouldn’t impose my morals on the people of this world, and that I would come to understand one day why things are the way they are. Well, that day has come. And what I have understood is that a deep, disgusting rot resides in this country. The way it allows for the abuse of the people until they have nothing left to give while allowing the aristocracy to grow richer from it disgusts me. My strength binds me to duty, they said. I needed to fight the monsters for the people. Well, I have found a new monster to fight, and the people will be finally free once I’m done with it.”

Chapter 7 - Skullduggery is a Noble Art - Leonard 6

A whole minute of silence followed his proclamation. The two women stared at him, lips parted and eyes wide.

Leonard didn’t believe he had said something preposterous, nor that it had come out of the left field. Both knew very well that he was dissatisfied with how things were run, especially with the nobility ignoring the people’s suffering in Hetnia.

Still, he allowed them the time they needed to process things. He had essentially declared war on the kingdom, after all. Some things were shocking to hear, even when one already knew it was coming.

“I knew you were the right choice.” Amelia finally said, eyes shining brightly. She removed a silken handkerchief from her shadow and gracefully dabbed her eyes. “It took a while for you to break free from the chains they put on you, but you see what needs to be done. That’s good. That’s really good.”

Leonard stared at his friend. He knew her better than anyone else, and he still couldn’t understand her at times.

Has she been waiting for me to pick up my sword again? I know she hates most of the aristocracy, but I thought she was too pragmatic to waste time on idealistic notions.

Whatever her reason, Leonard appreciated her support. Without her, things would have been much more difficult. He would have still fought, but wars needed to be planned in many different fields, and for all his strength, he wasn’t suited for all of them. Amelia would make a wonderful spymistress.

“Thank you, my friend. Having you with me in this fight makes my heart lighter,” he told her, earning a brilliant smile.

Lia cleared her throat, “I will follow you too. Allowing things to remain as they are would mean the doom of everyone here, no matter how much I might personally struggle. We need fundamental change, and I trust you to at least give the system a good whack. Better to die fighting for what we believe in than starving.”

As always, the hobgoblin brought them back to reality. She had spent her life helping the unfortunate, honing her craft to make sure her people could have a shot at life, only for it all to be upended by the Incursion. Where before, she managed her community with a steel hand, it had now grown to over ten times what it used to be, by far exceeding her capabilities. It wasn’t surprising that she had identified the likely end her people would face in the long run.

“I cannot promise you absolute victory, even with the might the Light has blessed me with, but I can promise you I’ll work tirelessly to make things better for everyone. Slavery is a foul crime not just for its evident effects on people’s freedoms but also because it weakens the very basis of a country.” Leonard responded, eyes gaining a faraway quality as he thought back to the land he was born in. “Only the masters benefit directly, while everyone else is dragged down by it. Even the free men who think it’s not their business.”

“I agree that it a terrible thing,” Amelia said after sipping her tea, “but surely if it were that bad, more people would decry it? It’s accepted practice almost everywhere in the world. As far as I know of our neighbors, only the Brander Republic and the elven Lantea oppose it. Everyone else, from the Hammerfest Empire and the Handriatic Union to the south, Eturia and Velvefor in the north, and even Stormguard, practice it as an integral part of their economy. Despite the consequences, I still think it’s worth getting rid of it, but you are saying it’s actually bad even in that respect?”

Leonard sighed. The problem with being an otherworlder was that most of what he considered conventional wisdom was entirely unheard of here. It wasn’t even that Haylich and its neighbors were backward. They simply developed on entirely different lines, given the presence of magic and nonhuman sapients.

Almost everyone who understood economics in his original world knew that people forced to work were much less productive than people who willingly did so. “Slave labor pulls down the value of freeman’s wages. Meanwhile, slaves cannot contribute to the local economy and do not have the means to purchase anything. Slaves are denied even the basic education that most commoners receive. They generate a downward spiral of economic malady from which no country can pull itself from without ridding itself of the malignant cancer that caused it in the first place.” Leonard replied passionately. Of course, he mainly opposed the foul practice because it clashed ideologically with who he was. But that it also meant a constant force pulling down entire countries was important to acknowledge.

“Then why is it so widespread?” Amelia asked, though she had already realized the answer by the way her face grew grimmer.

“Because it is the perfect weapon for the aristocracy to maintain its grip on power. If the people were allowed to grow and flourish, they would threaten their monopoly. And they are willing to go to any length to retain that.” Leonard meant it. He hadn’t understood how far they’d go until they killed Belinda and ensured he could do nothing but watch her pass in his arms. Now that his eyes had been forcefully opened, he would never forget.

“Tsk. It wouldn’t surprise me if they were well aware of this. At least the few with a thinking mind that direct everything.” Lia muttered, lips twisting in a snarl.

Leonard nodded in agreement, “People like Prime Minister Nevielle are sure to know this. The man is very intelligent, despite how much I dislike him, and the only reason someone like him would allow slavery to remain is that he thinks it’s necessary.”

Amelia sighed, “Even now, after all these years, they find ways to surprise me with their depravity.”

Leonard smiled warmly, placing his hand on hers, “But now we are doing something about it. That’s what counts. The reason I’m so mad is that I allowed myself to be entrapped in their games for too long, and after the Incursion, I was tired. I didn’t want to fight again, and so I went along with the status quo. But now I will change it. With your help, if you’ll give it to me.”

Rather than rolling their eyes like he suspected they’d do, the two women went down on one knee, fiercely looking at him. “We swear ourselves to the cause!” They said firmly, and Leonard felt their will be manifest in an oath.

It was much more than he had requested, and it made him stand up, placing his hand on his heart, “I will fight for the cause until my dying breath, if necessary.”

With that, Leonard had achieved his first goal. Amelia and Old Lia would be fundamental to shore up his fledgling operation, and while he doubted they would have said no, he wanted them to be all in.

Now, to find myself my first General.

After leaving Lia's house, Leonard took the time to tend to his personal needs, which had been neglected during his imprisonment and the immediate whirlwind of events that followed his release. The simple act of washing up and dressing in clean clothes was a small but significant step toward reclaiming his sense of self.

Amelia had kindly offered her house, as he was still hesitant about returning to the cottage he had shared with Belinda. More than the memories, the broken promises of a happy future together threatened to swallow him, and he couldn’t afford that luxury anymore now that he had decided to act.

As evening began to cast its shadows over the town, Leonard made his way deeper into Alpar’s slums. His destination was a seedy bar known as The Broken Lance, a dimly lit establishment that served as a sanctuary for those whom the horrors of the Incursion had shattered. Here, in this place of refuge, distinctions between humans and demihumans faded into irrelevance. They were all comrades in misery, seeking solace at the bottom of a mug. The Broken Lance was nestled in a narrow alley, its sign barely visible under the grime that covered everything in this part of town.

As Leonard pushed open the heavy wooden door, the smell of stale ale and subdued conversations greeted him. The interior was as one might expect from such a place: dark, with a few flickering candles casting shadows on the walls and tables scattered haphazardly around the room. The clientele consisted of a mix of weary laborers, mercenaries who had seen better days, and others whose eyes bore the unmistakable mark of having faced the Void.

A solitary figure sat in the corner of the tavern, away from the few raucous groups attempting to drown their memories in the drink. He was a man whose posture spoke of a noble bearing now weighed down by defeat. The armor that should be a proud symbol of his status as a knight lay discarded on the bench beside him, while his tabard, once bearing the emblem of his lord, had been scrubbed until it was unrecognizable. This was Sir Gareth, a disgraced knight whose love had led him to the brink of destruction.

He was a handsome man with delicate features and a dark braid that had sent many a maiden swooning. Those days were long behind the man, having been sent to die in exile after making the mistake of falling in love with his lord’s daughter. His skill at arm and tactical talent had seen him pull through the Incursion physically unarmed, but his heart was still hurt.

Gareth was nursing a mug of the tavern's cheapest swill; his gaze fixed on the dark liquid as if seeking answers in its depths. The coins on the table in front of him suggested he was determined to spend his last remaining money in an attempt to forget his sorrows, if only for a night.

Leonard approached the knight, his presence initially unnoticed amid the general gloom of the tavern. It wasn't until he loomed over him that the knight looked up, startled, his eyes widening in recognition and disbelief. "Sir Leonard?" Gareth's voice was hoarse, disbelief coloring his tone as he stared up at the figure before him.

He managed to miss what happened. It just goes to show how stubborn humans can be to ignore a pillar of Holy Light.

Leonard nodded, offering a small smile, “Sir Gareth of Doomspear, I had heard you were still alive after the last battle.”

Gareth's initial shock gave way to a wary resignation. "Alive, yes, but not living," he muttered, gesturing to the dingy surroundings. "What does the Hero want with someone like me? My honor is lost, my name is mud, and my lord would sooner see me dead than restored.”

Leonard's gaze hardened. The weight of his own recent injustices lent gravity to his words. "I seek those who have been wronged, those who have been cast aside despite serving faithfully. I know you to be a real warrior, honest and true. I know your heart is still suffering and that the world seems at its darkest, but I need you. The people’s plight has gone by unheard for too long, and good men can no longer ignore it.”

For a moment, silence reigned. The tavern might have well been empty for all that its patrons were transfixed. Gareth stared at Leonard, his eyes searching desperately for something. Whether that be justice, recognition, or something else, he seemed to find it because the man stood up smoothly, burning away the alcohol in a flash of mana.

It was just a matter of willingness for a Master knight like him. His control over his body was such that the desperate, listless man disappeared like snow under the summer heat, and in its place was the man who had led thousands of others against the forces of the Void.

He knelt, and Leonard knew he had him.

Chapter 8 - The People Want what they are Led to - Amelia 2

A significantly different scene than usual was taking place all over Alpar’s slums. Where before people hurried about their business, trying their best to keep themselves occupied, now they moved purposefully. A flame had been lit.

Despite our best efforts, we could never rid them of their fear of the future. They suffered too much, and the nobles proved themselves useless at best and predatory at worst. But now that they heard Leonard will fight them, they found their life back.

Amelia silently strode through the dark alleys, invisible to the eyes of all. Her eyes sought to unravel the change that had occurred so quickly.

Leonard had publicly declared his intent to fight against the entire kingdom only the night before, yet it seemed everyone had already heard the news. None of her agents placed around the minor noble houses had reported anything reaching their nominal masters, so it meant that secrecy had been somehow protected.

The lower classes, from laborers to slaves, knew very well the value of keeping things away from the upper ones. It was their main avenue of survival. While that usually required some active organization, it happened naturally this time.

Amelia didn’t know if this was because of the people’s loyalty to Leonard or their survival instincts, but she appreciated it nonetheless.

She had held back for so long. By herself, she could have rid Alpar of the parasites that sucked all the good out of it in the span of an afternoon, if she took her time. The garrison would have been impotent before her might, not to speak of that of her contracted spirits.

But she hadn’t. Some nights, when she was alone and the thoughts wouldn’t go away, even she didn’t know why. Her mantra felt hollow. “Trust in the plan. It must come from him.”

And finally, finally, the time had come to act. Leonard had shaken away the lethargy of victory and love. Belinda’s death was regrettable, but the woman had been intelligent enough to understand the risks she ran getting together with the most powerful man in the Haylich.

He hadn’t acted in the way she would have, but then again, there was a reason why he was the leader, and she was not. Amelia knew herself well enough to realize she shouldn’t be trusted with that much power. Her soul was too dark. Tainted. It helped her do what needed to be done to ensure Leonard could walk into the light, but she could never be what he was.

But that’s fine. Everyone has a role to play. I wouldn’t enjoy being like that anyway.

“Have you heard?” A harried hobgoblin mother, who was ineffectively trying to gather her children, asked a human man who had evidently just come back from the fields.

“The guys were just telling me,” He answered, removing his straw hat and wiping his sweaty forehead with a dirty hand, “It still seems hard to believe.”

“It’s true!” The hobgoblin insisted, eyes gleaming brightly, “Tom heard it himself. The Hero promised he’s gonna make ‘em pay!”

The laborer brought his hat over his heart and took a deep breath, “We’ll have to prepare then. I doubt anyone in Alpar will reject him. Even the soldiers will come around once they have time to think, but everywhere else is not gonna be easy.”

For all that he looked like a simple farmer, the man had a wise outlook. Shockwaves would hit the markets depending on how successful and aggressive the coming actions would be. Prices might increase significantly if supply lines were slowed, and open fighting would undoubtedly do that. Merchants wouldn’t be able to keep to their routes, especially since most of those who operated in southern Alpar were either slavers - whose business would swiftly end - or native citizens trying to bring money back to their land - a duty which would be taken over by the Revolutionary Government, once Leonard got around to forming it.

War generally meant that the ordinary people would suffer, whether it was won or lost. But since this coming conflict would be fought in their name, Amelia believed their welfare would be prioritized.

It’s why I started sending messages to my agents to direct significant supplies this way. The whole operation is going to be in the red for the first time in years, but it doesn’t really matter. I inherited the ring when it was a wreck and rebuilt it expressly so that I would have the resources when it was time to act. That time has come.

Slipping away from the two, Amelia made her way deeper into the slums, towards the tavern that veterans and the occasional adventurer usually frequented. Before she could reach it, however, she was intercepted.

“The Mistress of the Shadows has returned to her role.”

The vicar’s voice was much stronger than the young, enthusiastic one he usually employed in public. His eyes glinted with glee, and Amelia immediately knew he had heard something she hadn’t yet.

“I do my duty. If our leader wants to fight, we need to be prepared.” She answered, not giving him the satisfaction of asking.

After a moment of silence, Damien sighed, “You never let me have fun. Very well. I just heard that a secret communication was sent from Judge Eichelbaum’s office to Thelma’s receiver.”

Ah. The little Judge is stupider than I thought. Well, this is better for us.

A smile spread over her features, so captivating that men had wept at the sight. The Vicar was unmoved.

“He must still think he can retain power if Thelma’s Lord Mayor sends help quickly.” She answered.

“Especially because the three Paladins sent from Mellassoria have been praying non-stop since Leonard’s show. They are not going to protect him.”

Amelia hummed, savoring the news. As always, Leonard managed to turn any situation to his advantage. Sometimes, it was deliberate, and sometimes, it happened as a consequence of who he was, but things still went his way. The three Paladins would not have been a match against him, but if they could bring them to their side, it would remove the enemy's best agents in their camp.

She could make a quick detour and kill them herself, but it would be a powerful propaganda tool for the masses to witness their devotion.

“I trust you can see to their conversion yourself, then?” She asked, earning a nod.

“It shouldn’t take much. They seem to be in the middle of a spiritual crisis. I let them stew for a while, but they will be ready soon.” Damien replied before continuing, “Do you think Thelma’s forces will be a problem? I know that on the battlefield, they won’t amount to much against you and Leonard, but it’d be better if the people won the first battle, and I don’t know if there is enough time to prepare them.”

Amelia tittered, a smooth, melodious sound, “Just do your duty. Leonard’s ability to make miracles happen is more ludicrous than you might believe. You’ll see.”

And with that, she sashayed away. The vicar lingered only for a moment before shrugging and leaving for his Temple.

Enthusiasm is good, but he must know his place. Well, after this thing kicks off, no one will doubt Leonard again.

Amelia's stride carried her purposefully through the slum's alleys until The Broken Lance loomed before her. The tavern's usual ambiance of hopelessness seemed to have undergone a metamorphosis tonight. The buzz of activity was palpable even from outside when usually the atmosphere was of resigned despair.

Pushing open the door, she was met with a scene that seemed to have leaped from the canvas of a master painter. The dim, smoky interior of The Broken Lance was alive in a way she had never seen before. Nearly a hundred people - grizzled veterans of the Incursion, rugged adventurers, and those who had borne witness to the darkest hours of the kingdom and hadn’t come out unscathed - filled the space. Yet, despite their numbers, complete silence pervaded, a collective breath held in anticipation.

They were seated everywhere: on chairs, atop tables, and sprawled across the floor. In the center of this semicircle, sitting on the counter like a general amidst his troops, was Leonard. The glow of the candles flickered against his features, casting him in a transcendent light and giving his fine features a solemn look.

Beside him stood Sir Gareth, a man transformed. Gone was the defeated knight who had sought to drown his sorrows in cheap ale. In his place stood a figure renewed, clean, and powerful, his eyes alight with purpose as he gazed at Leonard with admiration. On the other side, Oliver, the Hero’s squire, hung on his mentor’s lips.

“Because of this, we know they have broken the social contract. I was there when the king and the high nobles promised to support Hetnia’s recovery. Instead, all they do is take. Taxes are still being collected, while the people who gave everything to push back the Void are left languishing.” His voice was firm and compelling, captivating the attention of everyone. Even the servers had stopped.

“Hear, hear!” The crowd shouted back. Humans, hobgoblins, and the occasional half-elf were all as one.

“And if it were only this, I’d call them craven and be done with it.” Leonard continued, “But there are no depths to their depravity. They are using the region’s weakness to plunder its resources; they take away our lumber and iron while enslaving our people!”

A low rumble of energy began to build up as the people listened. Amelia could see fingers twitching with suppressed energy and pupils dilating.

“They force our people to toil for them, away from their vocations! They prevent slaves from earning their blessings! They undermine our rights to grow, given to us not by men but by the Holy Light!”

The rumble turned into a stamping. Feet pounded the floor as the men’s emotions were lifted higher and higher.

“And now they have become so brazen as to kill my love! There are no limits to how low they are willing to go, and so I say to you: It’s enough! The time has come for change to sweep the land! The King’s rule is over!”

A roar followed his words. Everyone got up, shouting their readiness to take the field alongside the Hero. The men swarmed Leonard, shaking his hand and slapping his shoulders.

Through the chaos, Amelia noticed someone who seemed to be less enthused. A young man, dressed in similar clothes to the other patrons but cleaner, snuck away, taking advantage of the moment.

It took her a second, but she recognized him as one of the 105th.

I doubt he was here to enjoy a drink. There are much better places in the town proper, and Sir Gerard is not one to let his men go without coin. He might have come here to gamble but wouldn’t have stayed for so long and left now if that was the case. No, it’s much more likely he’s here to report the situation back to his Captain.

Amelia sighed but allowed the soldier to leave. The cat was already out of the bag anyway. She doubted Sir Gerard would inform any of his superiors after they ignored his requests for aid for months. Still, the choice was not hers to make.

A few minutes later, Leonard finally freed himself from his new posse. She approached him, smiling at Gareth, who kept his place beside him. Oliver was chatting excitedly with an adventurer, who mimed a particular way of thrusting a sword into an enemy’s bowels.

“That was a nice speech. It’s a pity that we had company,” She opened, earning a sigh.

“I noticed. Franz is a good kid, so I let him go. I doubt word hasn’t left the town yet, anyway.” Leonard replied, once again showing himself to be observant. “To be honest, I don’t mind too much. This will put pressure on Gerard. He needs to make a choice and doesn’t have much time left. Tomorrow, I’ll go visit him.” He said.

“He might tell you no. You know he’s a stubborn man.” She replied. Amelia doubted that’d be the case, but sometimes people had the bad habit of surprising her.

“Then I’ll have to kill him,” Leonard answered with finality, eyes hooded.

Chapter 9 - The Clock never stops Ticking - Gerard 1

“Do you see that? Think we should intervene?” Dominic, a young recruit, said, gesturing to where a human slave boy was hiding from his master, who went shouting through the plaza looking for him.

“Go ahead. I doubt any good will come of it. If the rumors are right, things will change pretty quickly.” The more experienced Jonathan answered. He had served as Sergeant of the 105th for years and was wise enough to sniff when the winds were changing.

After the Incursion and the normalization of duties from wartime, the 105th had become a joke among the Royal Army. As Alpar lacked a local militia - it having been sent to fight against the Void and never returned - they worked as thief-catchers more than they trained.

Gerard knew very well what his colleagues said behind his back. That he was washed out and that the Incursion had broken him to allow his men to be employed like that.

They had no idea what living away from the aegis of authority was like. The 105th, for all that more than half its numbers had been lost fighting the Voidlings, had managed to reforge itself. Its soldiers were well trained, and he’d wager his monthly salary that even his recruits could go toe-to-toe with many “experienced” soldiers in companies like the vaunted 75th stationed in Treon.

“Leave him be,” Gerard sighed, earning a confused nod from his subordinates.

Usually, he’d be the first to enforce order. Whether that was bringing back a truant slave to their master or making an abusive owner stop beating their property, it didn’t much matter to him. Order and Law were what society was built on. Even the Hammerfest Empire, with its savage strength and mighty armies, relied on them once their conquests were done. Without them, people would be like monsters. If it meant the suffering of a few innocents for the greater good of all, so be it.

But now, that justification was not sufficient anymore. Franz, another of his young soldiers, had reported the previous evening that the Hero was gathering an army. He broke veterans and adventurers out of their funk with charismatic speeches and talked about equality for all. He spoke of Light-given rights being infringed upon.

He might even be right about that. Slavery has always seemed like a natural thing to me, but looking at it from the outside, it’s evident that the slaves are being stopped from achieving their potential. And most slaves are not criminals like some like to think. They were born into it and have known nothing else. Or they had to sell themselves to give some money to their families.

This wasn’t a new belief. Once in a while, some zealot sprung up and started preaching about freedom. But those were usually put down by the Temples very quickly, as they didn’t want to risk the wrath of the Royal Court. If they somehow acquired enough power to resist the paladins, the army was known to have dispatched a few over the centuries.

While those situations might seem similar to what was developing in Alpar at the moment, Gerard knew it wasn’t so. Leonard Weiss might have been too into his beliefs for his liking, but he was also a rational, talented commander. He wouldn’t have started recruiting if he didn’t believe he might have a good chance of winning. Whether that was carving out a principate of some kind for himself or aiming at the whole kingdom, Gerard didn’t know. But the fact that he was readying for a fight meant that the calculation had become positive.

There’s also his not-insignificant personal power. Even if I wanted to stop him, as the law says I should, I couldn’t detain him. He made sure to let everyone know about this by walking out of the courthouse unimpeded after summoning the greatest concentration of Holy Light I’ve ever heard of.

Shaking his head, Gerard continued his patrol. All over Alpar, similar scenes repeated. Minor transgressions were visible everywhere, as unseen energy ran through the lowest class. Something was pushing them to be bolder. To dare more.

At one point, Gerard saw a small slave girl, property of a merchant from Hammerfest if her leather clothes were any indication, actively disobey her master, forcing the man to activate her collar to catch her.

This was not something usually done in polite society, and even the other slave merchants gave the man reproachful looks at the way he was treating his merchandise.

They didn’t pity the girl, but her screams as electrical currents ran through her were bad for business. After a moment of hesitation at interfering with something that was not technically illegal, Gerard gestured to his men to approach the slaver.

“Good man, you are causing a ruckus!” Jonathan yelled over the pitiful screams.

That seemed to do the trick, and the girl let out a gasp, finally able to breathe again. She lay there in a pool of her fluids, whimpering. She’d recover, Gerard knew, but it didn’t mean it was fun to look at.

“If you cannot keep order in your household, we’ll be forced to intervene more thoroughly.” The Sergeant said, voice low and eyes hooded. He had a daughter the same age as the girl, Gerard remembered.

“Who do you think you are?!” The merchant sputtered in his heavily accented voice. He struggled with the softer sounds and excessively put effort into saying the words correctly, but at least it was understandable. They’d have to resort to elvish otherwise, as it was the lingua franca of merchants, and Gerard had forgotten most of what his grandmother had taught him. Speaking in Festese was not on the table, as they didn’t teach their tongue to outsiders.

“Disrupting business is a punishable offense.” Gerard intervened firmly.

The merchant turned his gray eyes to him, typical of the Empire to the south, and sneered. Still, he complied, roughly gathering the girl by her collar and dragging her away, muttering to himself that he’d leave as soon as he managed to fill up his hull and not a day later.

The soldiers watched them go in silence until Dominic turned to Gerard. “Captain, do you think the Hero will do anything to the foreigners? He says slavery is evil, but if he hurts them, we might see retaliation from the countries in the south.”

That was a good question. Gerard would have liked to have the answer himself, but he supposed it would have to wait until Weiss made his move. It shouldn’t take too long. “I doubt he’ll kill them, as he’s not an idiot, but I don’t see him allowing them to run away with the slaves.”

That was as much as he could say without speculating. Weiss was decidedly unpredictable at times so that the precise execution would remain a mystery for a while.

Resuming his patrols through the cobbled streets, Gerard took in a deep breath. Alpar sat where the Serpent Sea and Green Sea met, and the winds were strong enough to remove most bad smells. Only the salt remained behind, just as it had always been.

Down into the slums would be worse, as they were protected by most winds by the town and, therefore, were cursed with the lingering smells of fish and civilization, but here, at least, one could breathe without problem.

“What should we do when the time comes?” Jonathan asked, getting to the heart of the matter.

It was a question that had haunted Gerard for days. He knew the rest of the garrison was no less conflicted. On the one hand, they were sworn to fight for the king and uphold his laws. There was no ambiguity in what should be done. On the other hand, the Hero had fought with them for years and had repeatedly proved himself to be a brave warrior and a man of honor. He was also a particularly powerful wielder of the Holy Light, as evidenced by the miracle they had all witnessed. That counted for something.

He sighed. He had been doing that more often lately and wasn’t sure he liked it. Gerard had never thought of himself as a man who sighed instead of solving problems. “We all know the time to make a choice is coming soon. Sooner than most understand. We’ll have to use our conscience then. I don’t doubt that if anyone lays down their weapons, they’ll be spared, so keep that in mind if you cannot decide.”

It wasn’t a particularly rousing speech, nor what a Captain should say in response.

But then, I’d have to either attack Weiss now, and we’d all die, or retreat with all the supplies we can take like thieves in the night and get to Thelma, where I’d need to coordinate a strike against the town. And I’m not doing that… I suppose my choice was made a while ago.

“It was bound to happen sooner or later.” The Sergeant grumbled, getting dejected nods from the company.

He was right. The conditions in Alpar were still deteriorating, which was saying something considering that the town had almost been overrun three times during the Incursion. Sooner or later, something would have snapped. A peasant rebellion would have been bloody to put down, especially if the commanders had enough time to achieve a few victories and become strong enough that the full might of the Royal Army needed to be mobilized to stop them.

Gerard hadn’t exactly left the town since the end of the Incursion, but he still had his ways of getting information. Most towns up north or close to Garva in the east had been restored to their glory, and the crown had given the local lords some leeway to replenish their coffers before they needed to pay taxes.

Alpar and the southern holds, however, were different. No royal mage had been dispatched to rebuild their walls. That had been done locally. The only money coming in had been from the sales of slaves made from the displaced populations of the former towns that had been overrun. And that money had been kept between the wealthiest citizens.

The town's overall population had gone from almost two thousand to over six. It was an untenable situation, and if Gerard had been a more conspiratorially minded person, he would have believed it to have been orchestrated. It was as if an intelligent puppeteer had added together all the elements of a rebellion.

“Gonna be a lot of dead.” Marcel, another soldier, added. “I hoped I’d seen enough of it after the Hero beat back the last Voidling.”

“Life is conflict,” Gerard said, repeating the adage his father taught him. It was a grim outlook on life but more accurate than most understood.

With that, silence fell over the troops. They continued their rounds, breaking up scenes similar to what happened at the market and noticing how differently people moved.

After the Hero had emerged from the courthouse, apparently immune to the force of law, a weird spell had fallen over Alpar as everyone waited to see what he’d do. That translated into much more cautiousness by the upper classes, as if they could sense their time was coming.

Gerard even knew of a few smarter families who had uprooted and left town on the first ship they could find. If the tension continued much longer, others would follow, but he suspected things would soon come to a head.

“Sir Gerard, out for a patrol?” A familiar voice asked, and the Commander of the 105th turned to see the source of his troubles emerging from the slums, decked in his golden and white armor.

Leonard Weiss made for an intimidating sight even when not on the battlefield. He was tall and handsome and had an air of assuredness that told everyone to think twice before crossing him.

Gerard recognized it as the aura only the most powerful adventurers and knights had. It was the confidence of someone who knew they could defeat everyone around them without breaking a sweat.

“Sir Weiss.” Gerard nodded.

He wasn’t worried about getting attacked. The Hero wasn’t that kind of man. But he still gestured for his men to give them some privacy.

“We need to talk.” The Hero said.

The time to decide had come.

Chapter 10 - Rocks are Hard Places - Leonard 7

The fresh breeze coming from the sea ruffled his blonde hair. He breathed in salty, clean air and sighed.

Leonard observed the squad of soldiers spread around them. They were far enough to give a veneer of privacy but close enough that they could still hear.

That was good, as he wanted them to know what was discussed. They’d each have to make their own choice, and he wasn’t above influencing them by showing their Captain coming to his side.

If he ends up going that way. But I’ve gotten to know him well enough that I doubt he’ll disappoint me.

Leonard could always use some of his more esoteric abilities to convince the knight, but he’d prefer if Gerard came to his side of his own volition. True believers were always better than coerced soldiers.

“What do you see when you look at this town?” He asked, walking a few feet until he was at the edge of the stone wharf and sitting down.

Gerard sat down next to him without hesitation. The clinking of his armor reminded Leonard of the past, but he didn’t let that distract him.

“Alpar is not perfect, but I see the seeds of resilience here. Despite being abandoned to our means, we have managed to survive. I don’t know where the future will bring us, but we are not done yet.”

Leonard hummed at the answer. It was an optimistic one, but also naive, “That is true, in part. The problem is that seeds require sunlight, water, and good earth to grow. Some manage to make do without one, but never without two. Alpar has been left with only its own natural grit for too long to survive.”

It was a scathing sentence. In essence, Leonard was saying that there was no future for the town as things stood. What little merchant traffic came from the southern countries mainly consisted of them unloading the worst products in their stocks and taking slaves to sell around the world. From the north, only the bare minimum trickled in. The lack of commerce was slowly choking them, and if that wasn’t enough, the upper classes monopolized the local resources.

“So you believe rebellion is the answer? Do you not have friends among the powerful? I know several high noble scions fought with you against the Void.” The knight replied. He wasn’t trying to rebuke the assessment, which was a point in his favor, but his vision was still too narrow.

“I have made some friends, yes, and pulling on those connections should be enough to get something, but you should ask yourself one thing. What makes you think I haven’t tried that?” And Leonard had. Despite fighting a war for four years, he had still gotten out of it almost as naive as he had entered. The horrors he had fought were so alien to life that the atrocities were relegated to the recesses of his mind.

So, foolishly, he had asked his friends for help when it became evident that the promised help wouldn’t arrive and that no matter his and a few others’ efforts, Alpar wouldn’t be able to deal with the refugee crisis by itself.

He could have convinced himself that his friends had been prevented from answering if he hadn't received answers. Maybe that his letters hadn’t reached them.

But they had answered. Bernard de Luminier, his male best friend in this world, who had trained with him and helped him grow into who he was now and currently served as the First Lance of the Royal Guard, had prevaricated, saying that he should trust His Majesty’s plan.

William Nassay, son of Duke Nassay and a man of many means, had flatly ignored his request for help, instead sending him a handful of interesting trinkets he had picked up on his visit to the kingdom of Eturia in the north.

The only person who had offered personal help was Jean Franklin, the genius mage apprenticed to the current Chief Archmage of the kingdom’s Magic Towers. She was a kind and empathetic girl who would have answered his call if not for her master forbidding her from leaving the capital. Her personal means were also minimal, being an orphan from a commoner background who had barely avoided slavery.

So Leonard could only conclude that the state of things was how it was because those in power wanted it.

Gerard’s face tightened. The implications were not pleasant, but he didn’t seem to reject them out of hand. “There is no other way than open rebellion, then?”

The soldiers shifted in agitation. It was not something that was ever evoked lightly, much less by a Captain of the Royal Army.

Leonard stood up silently. He stared at the soldiers, who had lost the pretense they weren’t listening. Gerard stood up, too.

“There is no other way. This is the right path. A system that actively works against the weak and dispossessed is not a system that deserves to stay around, and the king has shown to be either too incompetent to prevent its failures or perfectly fine with them. Haylich needs to change, and if I have to be the one to do it, I’ll be glad to have you with me. We fought back the armies of the Void together. We bled and sacrificed much to protect the people, and yet the nobles would have our suffering be in vain. Join me. Let us build a better future for all.” Leonard’s voice thundered through the port. People of all social strata stopped what they were doing to witness something their instincts told them was of fundamental importance.

The soldiers should have, by all rights, unsheathed their swords and ran him through then and there. He was an admitted rebel who intended to strike at the crown.

And yet, one by one, the men knelt. They laid their weapons down without hesitation, and Leonard could see that the choice had been made in their heart. They would fight for him, for the cause, because they understood it to be right.

Sir Gerard was the last to kneel, but he did so nonetheless. He removed his sword from his hip and placed it on his knee. “May the Light bless us. We will join you in your righteous cause, Hero.”

Leonard walked over to the man and grabbed him by the shoulders, gently forcing him up. He stared into his eyes, seeing that he was truthful. No shade of uncertainty remained in him. Gerard had made his choice.

Leonard hugged him, “Thank you, brother. We will fight and bleed together once more, but our victory will finally bring justice to Haylich.”

It took a while for the situation to calm down enough. Leonard had gone to every man in the company and personally thanked them for their decision. He had then been brought to the garrison, where he repeated the question to the soldiers resting there.

With the support of the local Captain, there wasn’t anyone who dissented. Not that Leonard had expected it, as everyone knew the issues he talked about. Even the most privileged of Alpar’s residents were aware that the situation was untenable. They just thought they might squeeze the lower classes for a while longer before it exploded.

In one fell swoop, Leonard had received the loyalty of the 105th. It was the only significant force left within Alpar that could try to oppose him, which meant that the town was basically in his control. He only needed to formalize the acquisition, which was why his next stop would be the courthouse.

He had already covertly sent a message to Amelia, through the network of minor spirits she kept summoned at all times, to begin to gather the people there, but he had a few hours to kill before the stage was ready.

Thus, Leonard found himself discussing the general situation with the garrison’s officers. They were sitting in Gerard’s office, which was spacious enough to host the twenty Sergeants, two Lieutenants, and one Captain alongside Leonard.

It was a room he had been in more times than he could count, as during the Incursion it had been used by the Heroic Party as a war room. They had planned several assaults on the Void’s forces from there, including the last operation to eliminate what they believed to be remnants and instead turned out to be a sizable contingent led by a monstrously powerful entity.

Despite being only five months ago, those times felt like a different life.

“So you believe the Royal Army might not mobilize all at once?” One of the Sergeants asked, forcing Leonard back to the present.

“Indeed. Local garrisons will be activated, of course. Some sooner than others, but seeing the Court’s policy towards Hetnia as a whole, I doubt they will expend any more effort than it is essential, especially since they are still very much in the process of rebuilding their strength after the Incursion and need what little they have left to guard the borders.” He answered.

The Sergeant, a man with short-cropped black hair, dark eyes, and a scar running down his brow to his chin, hummed at that, “I suppose that Garva will be too busy guarding against raids from the tribes in the Death Pass and the northern provinces have their own issues.”

“Eturia won’t attack if there is an army to man the forts, but they cannot leave them open. Nor can they staff them with raw recruits, as the ruse would become apparent at the first skirmish along the White Bridge.” Another commented.

“So we’ll have time to grow a fresh army by defeating the first few enemies,” Gerard added, staring down at a map of Haylich. The man had transformed once he had decided to dedicate himself to Leonard’s cause. Not as dramatically as Gareth had, but it was still noticeable. Gone was the weight pressing him down, and a fire Leonard hadn’t seen in months was back.

For a long time, it had seemed like the knight had been lost, adrift in a peace he didn’t feel. Now that he was back in familiar terrain, he had regained his edge.

“We might need to preemptively strike Thelma before they can muster. Their soldiers are not as bloodied as ours, and I doubt they have as many Journeymen as we have. They should operate mostly with Apprentice soldiers, as their wards have kept them safe behind their walls instead of fighting the voidling like us.”

Leonard nodded. That was similar to his own assessment. In a way, Alpar being abandoned to its fate meant that since it managed to survive, all those who had served in its defense were much stronger than the average soldier. Of course, many more died in this meat grinder, but it produced excellent fighters. Everyone who had fought against the Void had received their second Blessing, and some, like Gerard and Gareth, were even stronger.

His initial forces might not be numerous, but they were mighty, which, in a way, was better.

“We might have fewer absolute numbers, but I’d pit any man in the 105th against five in the 104th.” Leonard said, earning some puffed chests and many “hear, hear” from the men.

“We’ll leave the proper planning to once we have seized control of the town, and the war council can be assembled, but for the moment, proceed with what we have discussed. Close the gates, and don’t let anyone out.” He finally added.

The men agreed, standing up and saluting him. It was easier than he had expected to fall back into a military bearing, and the local soldiers seemed to have no trouble with it. He was the Hero, after all, and they had already been under his nominal command only months before.

Then, his shadow twitched, a shadeling emerging for just a second to give him a thumbs up. The creature was a wispy, fat little humanoid, which he knew was the case because Amelia preferred them, thinking them cute.

They had always reminded Leonard of cartoon ghosts.

Giving the creature a subtle nod, it dissipated, its role complete.

The stage was set.

Chapter 11 - A Watched Pot still Boils - Leonard 8

Alpar’s central plaza had been used for more than a century to hold the primary market that sprung up during the seasonal festivities. It had seen generations come and go and always managed to fulfill its duty. The only time it had not been large enough was when an entire Royal Army Company had taken residence within the town, and the Generals had been forced to move the main camp out of the walls.

As the afternoon sun shone on the cobbled square, no inch was left open. Thousands of people, human and Demi-human alike, had left their dwellings and poured into the plaza.

An undercurrent of energy ran through the crowd. Considering the last time people had come here, they had seen a miracle, many expected the same.

There was curiosity, anger, and excitement. Months of suffering, of unanswered requests, were coming to a head. Despite having yet to be informed as to why their presence was required, they had all come because the people of Alpar had known for a while that something big was about to happen.

The courthouse was barricaded. The damage done by the pillar of Light was relatively minimal, resulting only in a hole in the roof, which was easily repaired by a mage. The doors were barred, and two soldiers stood before them, preventing the people from scaling the stairs and forcing their way inside.

That was the scene that greeted the military contingent headed by Leonard as they arrived.

People made space for them, curiously observing the procession. Whispers quickly ran through the crowd as they realized that the Hero had returned, this time with the full support of the local garrison.

In short order, they reached the stairs and ascended. Leonard and his guard split up as the men took place around the entrance, leaving the space open for him.

Leonard turned around and looked. A teeming mass of people stared back at him, their gazes expectant. He could see Oliver standing among the first, excitedly twiddling with the pommel of his sword.

Next to him were Old Lia and Margaret. Merchants, laborers, adventurers, and knights all united, waiting for the Hero to announce what the future would hold.

Standing atop a building, Leonard’s keen eyes noticed Amelia. She had always disliked crowds, so that she stayed clear of the sweaty mass wasn’t surprising. She graced him with a regal nod.

One of the two guards - a hobgoblin male - standing before the doors walked over, leaning in, “M’lord, the Judge and his staff have warded the doors and barricaded themselves in. We couldn’t stop them from reaching the communication room, so they might have sent a distress message.”

Leonard had already known that would be the case. Eichelbaum was arrogant enough to try and enslave him, but he was also not entirely stupid. He’d know that the garrison wouldn’t fight Leonard, so asking for help from his allies in nearby towns would be his immediate recourse. Considering one had to be at least a Journeyman mage to cast [Message] spells - which he was not - he could only use the Communication Orbs, but those required a lot of mana, and even by squeezing himself dry, he would only get a couple of messages out. His staff was a non-issue, as they were either slaves or servants who weren’t afforded the occasion to develop their reserves.

That he had used his limited supply of mana crystals to activate the wards meant that Eichelbaum had understood it was over. His only saving could come if the 104th from Thelma managed to quickly cross the distance.

After my little display, I would have thought he understood there was no chance of resisting me, but I suppose he will annoy me until the very end.

Leonard nodded, thanking the man, “It’s as I expected, soldier. You’ve done well in preventing the people from getting in.”

The hobgoblin returned to his post, hand on his sword’s pommel. Leonard took a deep breath, and a hush fell over the crowd. With a thought, [Commanding Presence] was activated.

“People of Alpar," he began, his voice carrying across the square, "today, we stand at a crossroads. For too long, we have been forgotten by a kingdom that sees us not as citizens but as resources to be exploited. Our fields are plundered, our labor taken for granted, and our sacrifices ignored.”

He paused, letting his words sink in, "Many among you fought and bled for the safety of this kingdom, defending it from the horrors that lurk beyond our walls. Yet, how are these heroes repaid? By being left to rot in slums, their valor and sacrifices forgotten.”

A murmur of agreement rippled through the crowd, the shared sense of injustice palpable in the air.

"I, too, was assured that change would come, that our voices would finally be heard. But those promises were empty. With each passing day, the abuses of power grow, and our suffering deepens.”

Everyone knew the Hero had just lost his fiancé. His were not empty words. His pain was real and raw. “Belinda’s murder," he growled, his voice tinged with sorrow, "is but the latest in a long line of injustices. A bright life snuffed out, and for what? To hurt me? To remove me from the board of power?! I cannot and will not allow her death to go unremarked. We have endured too much, sacrificed too much. This will end now!”

As Leonard’s emotions grew, so did the crowd’s. His active skill made it so that everyone could feel his state of mind, and there was no hiding from the burning, righteous rage that engulfed him.

“Thousands of our friends and family have been taken from us. Poverty that was not their fault, that was imposed from above, sealed their fate, and to this day, they toil for the benefit of their cruel masters!” Slavery was an abomination to him, and even if the people’s sensibilities weren’t perfectly aligned with his, Leonard had long decided that it didn’t matter. This was not an issue he would ever budge on.

He then turned to the garrison, addressing them directly. "And you," he said, his tone beseeching, "men and women of the guard, you who have stood against the darkness of the Void, who have seen your comrades fall in battle - you know the price of freedom. You know the weight of the lives lost, the dreams unfulfilled.”

The soldiers straightened. Their service had long been considered par for the course. They had been made to bury their brothers and sisters in silence. Now, there was someone who saw them.

"Let us honor the sacrifices of those who fell defending our Kingdom, not by perpetuating the cycle of oppression, but by breaking it. Let us forge a new path, one where our lives are truly free, where justice and fairness guide our actions, and where every citizen of Alpar - and beyond - can pursue their vocation under the Light's benevolent gaze.” His tone grew, ascending to a climax that everyone could feel coming.

“We’ll break the chains that bind us! We’ll walk into the light and abandon the darkness! Anyone who tries to stop us will be eliminated!” Leonard roared, and the crowd roared back. The energy in the square was palpable, a living, breathing entity fueled by his impassioned words and the shared fervor of a people who had suffered too much.

"The nobles suck the wealth and energy out of the lower classes, keeping us weak and docile. They prevent us from walking the righteous path of self-improvement the Light dictates while draping themselves in holy symbols that have lost all meaning.”

It was a dangerous statement, to be sure, one that could sow the seeds of schism within the very fabric of their society. Yet, Leonard stood unafraid, his resolve steeled by the righteousness of his cause. Revolution was not a path chosen lightly, but having embarked upon it, he was prepared to confront all institutions that had perpetuated the injustices faced by his people, including the clergy.

As if on cue, vicar Damien and the few remaining members of the local clergy voiced their approval with loud applause. Their support went a long way to give weight to Leonard's words, affirming that the call for change resonated even with the community's spiritual leaders. The priests’ approval signaled to the gathered masses that this revolution was not just political but moral and spiritual. It was a fight to reclaim the true teachings of the Light.

"We will build a new society on the ruins of the old, where every man, woman, and child can live in dignity and pursue their destiny without fear. Where the Light guides us, not through the distorted interpretations of those who seek to control us, but through the true principles it stands for. All will be given the chance they deserve!”

Again, the crowd erupted in cheers. Given the active skill he was using, it would be almost impossible for the message not to reach them, and given a mob’s propensity for collective thought, once he took hold of the energy, there was no chance of it going badly.

But one thing remained to do. Leonard needed something tangible to bind the people to his cause.

Luckily, someone had decided to provide him with the perfect one.

Once the crowd began to quiet down, he resumed speaking, “Behind me is the courthouse where the sham of a trial I was put through happened. I am not the only one to have suffered there.” Seeing the state the local criminals were kept in had been a wake-up call.

“Our rights have been trampled, and now the man responsible for it hides behind the wards. Judge Eichelbaum is too afraid to confront us. Even now, he plots against Alpar, seeking to betray us.”

Anger swept through the people. No one liked the man; he certainly hadn’t done anything to create a more favorable impression lately. Despite being the only proper authority in the town, Eichelbaum had wielded his power to benefit a tiny minority of people who had pledged themselves to him. He could have used his connections and power to provide help to the dispossessed that plagued the slums, but instead, he sent the garrison to arrest them so that he could condemn hundreds, if not thousands, to slavery.

Screams and calls for the man to be dragged out exploded from the assembled people until Leonard lifted a hand, and silence returned.

“He has broken into the emergency stores meant to protect the town from pirate raids or monster waves. Taken the few remaining mana crystals left from the Incursion and used them to activate the wards around the courthouse.”

This revelation sent a shock of dismay through the crowd. Despite not many knowing much about magic, everyone was aware that wards were not something easily broken. Armies could, with enough time, but it required a significant resource investment. For a town like Alpar, which only had a few cannons at its disposal, it would be faster to wait them out.

The only problem was that the 104th would be upon them by then. Not that the people knew about that yet, but they could instinctively understand that it was not a good idea to let the enemy retain a position within the heart of their town.

The other option was for Alpar's powerhouses to join hands and break down the wards. Sir Gareth and Sir Gerard, alongside several of the garrison and a few veteran adventurers, had enough power to seem invincible to the people. Even for them, breaking the protections down without artillery would take significant effort.

Luckily, there was another option.

Leonard breathed in deeply and called upon his power. [Judgement] would have been overkill and risked injuring the crowd. [Holy Domain] could remove the wards, but it would also reveal his might for hundreds of miles.

With many of his active skills too dangerous to use, Leonard resorted to the passive ones. The Light filled him, lending incredible power to his limbs.

With a few steps, he reached the doors. A subtle shimmering in the air hinted at the arcane protections forged decades before, meant to protect the town in times of danger.

Leonard placed his hand over the handles. “Open!” He thundered, and his will was made into reality.

Chapter 12 - A Door closes, A Door is Broken Down - Leonard 9

Wards were a type of magic that everyone who understood anything about the arcane agreed was useful but flawed.

A dozen Apprentice mages were required to set up even rudimentary ones, and unless one had the luck to be residing on top of a leyline - which was almost never - they’d dry out the casters over the course of a few hours.

To try and offset this, wards were often tied to circles or runic inscriptions, depending on the specific school the mages drawing them ascribed to. This allowed them to be activated even by a singular caster, who’d then use mana crystals to supply the power.

A town the size of Alpar might not have enough to justify building a tower, but it still had a small group of mages. They were enough to power the wards, alongside the stockpile, for up to a week, giving nearby army corps the time to get there and fight back against any enemy that threatened the king’s peace.

It was understood in military circles that it was better to wait until wards ran out of power unless one had a surplus of powerhouses - enough that their mana could be expended on breaking the wards while leaving some left to storm the defenses.

In a situation like Alpar’s, most military commanders would leave a squadron of soldiers to guard the courthouse and ensure no one could leave it while beginning to prepare for the coming siege. The 104th would take at least two more days to arrive, even if they had been alerted immediately after Leonard’s trial, due to needing to pull together the troops, gather supplies that were spent over the Incursion, and cross the Darkwood.

The courthouse’s wards were not exceptionally powerful. Even without monsters like Leonard and Amelia around, the local garrison could have broken them in a few hours. However, that would have left their stores depleted in a dangerous moment.

So, any sane commander would have taken the risk of leaving an enemy stronghold in their midst rather than weaken their forces.

The same limitations did not constrain Leonard. Being a Hero, he was already much more powerful than almost any other class, at parity of Blessings. He was also the most powerful Hero in modern history, as far as the kingdom of Haylich went, and that was only with what they knew, which wasn’t even half of the truth.

Leonard had managed to keep his true power hidden from almost everyone. Initially, it was simply because he didn’t truly understand how much stronger he was than everyone else. But with the years on the front came experience and understanding, so he started showing only what was absolutely necessary.

While it wasn’t time yet to reveal his true might, he had decided that there was no need to limit himself as much anymore.

With a thunderous boom and a blinding flash of light, the wards around the courthouse broke. Using a [Word of Power] might have been overkill, but Leonard didn’t care if he fried the controller in the process.

A few seconds later, while everyone was still busy rubbing the stars from their eyes, Amelia joined him, gracefully emerging from a nearby shadow to stand next to him.

“He’s still alive. The bastard didn’t even bother keeping hold of the wards once they were active,” She commented dispassionately.

Leonard sighed, “Well, at least we should be able to get some information out of him. Gareth, Oliver, take a few men with you and get the judge!”

His order was immediately followed. His squire and the knight had brought a few dozen adventurers and veterans with them and didn’t hesitate to storm into the now-open courthouse.

“Gerard, secure the people inside and the archives. Let’s see if we can’t find anything useful.” He got a curt nod from the man, who set about doing his duty.

It took only ten minutes before Oliver and Gareth returned, holding the same mousy man who had tried to condemn him to slavery aloft. His feet kicked the air uselessly, and he was busy screeching insults and threats. “Unhand me! Do you even know who I am?! I am the Lord of Alpar! I am the authority here! Obey me!”

It was a pathetic sight, and Leonard wouldn’t have minded letting it go on for a while longer, but there was a reason why he had ordered the man be dragged out where the entire town could see it.

“This isn’t doing you any favor, Eichelbaum,” He said, and the man quieted, directing a venomous glare his way.

“You have abused the power entrusted to you by the law to further your own goals. I have been a victim of this personally. But I don’t think you are the sole responsible for this. You are the product of a system meant to oppress the people. Will you beg for forgiveness from those you should have protected and appeal to their mercy?” Leonard asked impassively. He knew he wouldn’t.

A hateful snarl twisted Eichelbaum’s lips. His glasses were askew, and his hair ruffled. Dark bags marked his eyes. It was obvious that the man had been well aware of what would come for him ever since his plot failed. Leonard didn’t expect anything but poison to spill from his lips, but that was precisely what he wanted. A man like Eichelbaum, who had only wielded power to hurt others, would never have the wherewithal to understand his position.

The judge looked at the assembled populace and saw no friends there. “You disgusting traitors! How dare you raise your arms against the lawful power?! This whole town is a shithole, and I’ll see you all in chains for this! When Thelma’s forces arrive, you’ll pay!”

Leonard nodded, and Oliver brought down the pommel of his sword to the back of the man’s head, who crumpled down in a heap.

“People of Alpar, as you can see, the kingdom's representative is little more than a thug. His reign of terror ends now! The revolution has begun!” Leonard shouted, and the crowd roared back.

He let them express their joy for a full minute before lifting a hand. Once they quieted enough to hear him, he continued, “As you heard, this man has already contacted the royal forces. Even trapped and defeated, he still tried to hurt Alpar as much as possible.”

Boos and shouts of anger answered him. For just a moment, Leonard contemplated throwing Eichelbaum to the mob to see what they’d do to him, but he shook that thought away. The man needed to be pumped for any information he might have. It’d be a waste for him to be torn apart before they got everything.

“But do not worry! The good people of the 105th and my old comrades who fought against the Incursion have sworn themselves to our cause! Together, we’ll defeat any force that dares attack our fair town!”

Cheers followed that. In the people’s minds, if the Hero promised them something, it would happen. Leonard didn’t enjoy abusing his personal clout, but he would on this occasion. They couldn’t afford internal discord before the rebellion had even started.

Now for the edicts. I hope they don’t fight me on this, but they should be too amped up to care. It’s not them who’ll lose wealth anyway.

“Today marks the last day of oppression! Today will be remembered forever as the Day of Freedom! Slavery is abolished, and serfdom outlawed! Any found keeping others captive will be rounded up and made to pay for their sins. If you or any you know are slaves, go to the garrison, and your collar will be removed. To the slavers, I say this: submit to the nearest soldier or face the consequences!” Dozens of soldiers lifted the town banners - a tree on a rock in a field of blue - and began setting up stations with the help of some mages, as had been decided in advance.

It would take a while for the citizens to understand and go through the process, but Leonard trusted the men he had assigned to see it through.

“You are free, my people. Change is coming to the land, but you need not fear it. We are all one!” The people cheered, sealing his victory. And with that, he had crushed the last possible complaints to his rise to power. Leonard gave one last look to the joyful crowd, which would take a while to disperse fully, and entered the building.

“I don’t understand why you never wanted to give speeches. You have a talent.” Amelia commented, tapping her lip with a slender finger.

Leonard chuckled, “I wasn’t about to hand a propaganda win to old Vasily. Any speech I might have held would have just been twisted in his favor. He’s a wily old fox.”

“The king always struck me as the kind of man to revel in intrigue and plotting. We’ll have to make sure he doesn’t infiltrate us,” she commented. She gave a distrustful look to the soldiers around them, who were busy taking prisoners out of the rooms they had holed in and cataloging the captured documents.

“I don’t doubt he has some ears to the ground here, but I’m sure you can keep any message from escaping the town for a while, can’t you?” He replied, earning a nod.

“I’ll start seeing to that. I imagine you also want me to begin coordinating all the newly free men in the town and arresting the masters, yes?”

Leonard smiled, taking Amelia’s hands in his, “I’ll ask much of you in the coming months, my friend. But we’ll make a better world together.”

She sighed, giving him a half smile, and nodded, “I’ll do my duty.”

With that, he left her behind, walking briskly to the presiding judge’s office. The corridors buzzed with activity as soldiers and adventurers ran around, establishing the army's headquarters.

It was hard work, and Leonard waved away any attempt to stop and salute him. They’d need all the time possible to complete their task before their first obstacle appeared.

Two soldiers snapped to attention upon seeing him and rushed to open the door to the office, letting him. Inside, Leonard found a rich, luxurious room that was at odds with the general state of the town.

An intricate carpet of elvish make adorned the floor, which would have been enough to feed a hundred families for a month. Polished black wooden furniture made with local trees occupied most of the space. It was one of the few luxury exports of southern Hetnia.

Sitting on one of the chairs, head lolling forward, was the judge. Before him stood Oliver and Gareth, who were reading through a series of documents likely taken from the large desk placed before the windows.

The redheaded boy huffed in annoyance as he tried to parse the words, “His handwriting is terrible. Isn’t he supposed to be a noble?”

“He’s the son of a public official. Technically, he’s part of the gentry in his role as a judge, but it’s not permanent, so most actual nobles would treat him like dirt.” Gareth replied distractedly. The man had spent many years as a sworn sword, so he was well acquainted with the intricacies of nobility.

“Anything interesting?” Leonard asked, startling his squire. The knight didn’t flinch, having likely never lost track of him with his refined senses.

“He has a lot of correspondence with local nobles, but it’s the usual plotting you’d expect,” Gareth replied before handing Leonard a piece of paper. “This one might be relevant.”

Skimming through the contents, he quickly recognized it, “Ah, so we have confirmation he informed Thelma of my actions. Was there nothing else in the logs?”

“No, and I doubt anyone here had the power to falsify them,” the knight replied, “Communication orbs are made to be sturdy. They hold records for almost a year, and only an Expert mage can manipulate them.”

Leonard nodded, turning to face his squire. “What about you? Found anything you think I should know?”

Oliver nodded grimly and walked over to the desk, picking a letter up. “This is the order that came with the paladins. The date on it is from two weeks ago.”

“Ah,” Leonard grunted, taking it. The letter itself was nothing special, simply stating that, as requested by the local authority, three paladins were being dispatched with a high-grade slave collar. The problem was that it had been written well before Belinda’s death. It could only mean that his theory about the assassination attempt coming from high up was correct.

“Well, wake him up. I have a few questions for him before he can rest forever.” He commanded grimly.

Chapter 13 - Watchful Eyes, Strong Arm - Gerard 2

“Sir, they are waiting for you in the war room.”

Gerard grunted in assent, waving the Hero’s squire off. The lad nodded and kept going, likely on some assignment from his mentor.

Having watched his growth from the sidelines in the past months, Gerard could say that the Hero had chosen well. Oliver was a spirited and dedicated young man who put in the hours and was Blessed in return. Had the kid been a bit older, he would have snapped him up for the 105th, but Leonard got there first.

“Continue rummaging through this place; there should still be some boxes in the back with relevant information,” He ordered to one of his men, who saluted before leaving.

Walking briskly, he made his way upstairs, where Alpar's new ruling council was convening.

I suppose that makes me one of them. At least the Hero won’t make us stand waiting for him like Duke Hetnia that one time he deigned coming here.

Gerard was not the kind of man to enjoy pomp and pageantry. He understood there was a reason behind it, but he would have preferred if the nobles let him do his job as a soldier rather than show him off like a shiny toy.

Now, that wasn’t a problem anymore. If the rebellion succeeded, even in some minor way, he would be able to dedicate his time to matters of import. If it didn’t succeed, he’d be dead.

Entering the lush room, Gerard noticed the unnaturally clean area, which, paired with the smell of blood, made it clear that the judge had met a gruesome end.

Not that I ever liked him. He was a right bastard and would have worsened once his grip on the town was solidified. Good riddance.

Where once had been a desk now stood a large table, likely pulled from storage. Several chairs had been placed around it, with most being occupied. All of the Hero’s confidants were present, each likely having been assigned duties relative to their competence.

“Lady, Sirs.” Gerard greeted quietly, taking one of the last two free seats, which put him next to the old hobgoblin woman who cared for the slums.

She turned to give him a look, which somehow was enough to make him feel like a misbehaving child, before turning away with a huff.

“You’ll have to forgive Lia, Sir Gerard. For her standards, that was a positively glowing first meeting.” The other knight in full armor at the table told him with a half-smile.

Gerard grunted, not feeling the need to make conversation. Luckily, the other man respected his unspoken wish because he shut up.

Gareth Doomspear was a name everyone in Alpar knew. He had led much of the “informal” army against the Void, and his tragic story had pulled at many heartstrings. All soldiers considered his subsequent fall into despair a waste of a good knight, so seeing him back in good spirits was encouraging. It seemed like the Hero had once again worked his magic.

The man of the hour was busy reading through a wad of documents but took the time to nod to Gerard in greeting, which he returned.

Seeing him look so serious took Gerard back to the days of fighting the Incursion. The man had personally led his Party and two Corps to relieve the siege of Alpar, freeing the 105th from what was quickly becoming certain death, and had used the town as a base to launch several successful attacks on the enemy.

Gerard had seen him defeat a Void Scourge by himself, one of the most powerful monsters spawned from the primordial hunger. It had happened quickly and efficiently, as if a creature capable of taking on the entire Corp was nothing but a child to be swatted away.

That was the moment he had known things would be alright. Blood would be spilled, and many would die, but they’d win in the end.

That same trust led him to join the man in his rebellion. Most military commanders would have rejected the possibility of conquering anything of import with just the forces available to Alpar as absurd. Still, something told Gerard the Hero would do it. And he trusted his instincts.

A minute later, a beautiful woman stepped into the office. Her dark locks caught the fading sunlight perfectly, and her eyes sparkled like amethysts. Gerard stood to greet her and averted his gaze, fixating on a spot just above her eyebrow. He wouldn’t make a fool of himself.

The door closed behind her with a solid thunk, and she waved a hand over it, casting half a dozen spells in the time it would have taken him to draw his sword. Once satisfied with the security measures, she walked over to the table and set a stack of papers before the Hero.

“Here’s the accounting of all the assets we seized from the slave masters and my recommendation for their redistribution.” She said with a husky tone, as if she hadn’t just completed a job that would have taken several high-ranking bureaucrats a week in a mere afternoon.

“Thank you, Amelia. I’ll start working on it as soon as we are done here.” Leonard replied, gesturing to the open seat.

She followed the suggestion and sat beside Gerard, gracing him with a small smile.

“My lady.” He murmured, still keeping his attention away from her features.

Luckily, he was saved from making a fool of himself as the Hero stood up and walked to a pile of documents set on a small table to the side. He grabbed a roll of parchment and returned to his seat, working to open it from the silk knot that kept it closed.

He unrolled it, revealing a map of Hetnia, the duchy they resided in.

Marked on it in red were Alpar, close to the south-easternmost point, and Thelma, which sat fifty miles to the west.

In yellow were the province's two main cities, Treon, close to the border with Garva, sitting on the mouth of the Great Slitherer, and Hassel to the north, at the end of the Darkwood.

“From what we were able to learn from Eichelbaum before he croaked, Thelma has been aware of the likelihood of a rebellion for a couple of days, though only today did he send the confirmation.” With his eyes focused on the map and wearing his armor, the Hero once again resembled the force of nature that he was rather than the mortal man he had hidden himself as.

“The distance between Thelma and Alpar is fifty miles. If they left after receiving confirmation, we should still have some time before their scouts get here, much less the main army. If they left after the first message, they should be upon us.” Sir Gareth commented, rubbing his chin.

Everyone turned to Gerard for his opinion, being the man with the most experience with the local area. “In normal conditions, they should be able to march here in one and a half days, but considering the poor maintenance of the roads, the lack of supplies everyone in Hetnia suffers from, and the fact that the Void has killed all their elite squads while the rest of the soldiers rested behind the wards, I doubt they started marching as soon as they got the order. We should expect them to arrive between twenty-four and forty-eight hours.”

The Hero gestured to Lady Amelia, who nodded, “I already sent the fastest scouts there. We should have better information in a few hours, but the fact that they haven’t already returned means the army isn’t even halfway here. And I know they weren’t intercepted.”

Once again, the woman showed just how terrifying she was. As a Spirit Summoner, she was a mage with exotic powers that exceeded the average caster's dreams. Having reached the Fourth Blessing at a young age, Gerard couldn’t even imagine what she was truly capable of. It was a very good thing she was on their side.

“My people in Thelma have reported significant movement, but as of yesterday night’s check, the garrison hadn’t left yet.” A croaking voice interrupted. Gerard turned to look at the old hobgoblin, who sported a fanged grin.

“I have several old students working in Thelma. I’ll receive their daily report in a couple of hours, so we’ll know for sure, but I doubt they’ll be here before twenty-four hours.”

The Hero smiled, turning to Gerard. “What do our defenses look like? Assume you have a whole day to prepare before they arrive.”

Gerard took a moment to ponder. The 105th was originally made of five hundred soldiers, but the war had reduced their numbers to three hundred and thirty. Recruitment of the refugees had brought them back to four hundred - the minimum required to operate a functional Corp - but the new soldiers weren’t on par with the originals.

Adding the adventurers, ex-slaves and assorted veterans from other Corps that had been left around Alpar as their battalions disintegrated fighting the Void, the people that could be trusted to hold a formation when confronted with the enemy were less than a thousand.

“Assuming a whole day to prepare, we should be able to hold a few drills with the adventurers and veterans to check their preparedness. If they all are good to go, you’ll have a thousand soldiers capable of holding their own against Thelma’s. If you conscript all those who have physical Blessings, which would mostly be slaves, we could reach two thousand, but I don’t think it’s a good idea. They might break when faced with the enemy.” Raising levies wasn’t done if not in the harshest of circumstances. It was considered an outdated method everywhere these days, and the only modern force Gerard knew still did it was Mukabar in the Far East. But then again, it was said that people there lived as packed as sardines, so the accounts might not be accurate.

“As far as I know, we have about forty mages, but only twelve who can contribute to the fighting, though I have no idea how many might reside in the slums, as they have worked hard to stay away from the garrison.” He continued. All in all, it was a pretty good situation. Thelma’s soldiers would be better equipped and with more ammunition, owing to the town being larger and richer than Alpar. It had also suffered less during the Incursion. But the raw numbers were in their favor, as Gerard couldn’t see the Lord-Mayor of Thelma ordering all his forces to leave. It would leave him too open.

“Ultimately, it depends on how much of Thelma’s resources we have to fight. If they send everything they have, we might have to turtle down and lower their numbers with alternative methods. If, as I suspect, it’s only the 104th coming our way, we can win the fight in the open field.” He concluded.

“The Temple has decided to dedicate our resources to the defense of Alpar. The three Paladins sent from the Capital also swore oaths to fight for the cause and will be serving as healers and protectors of the injured.” Vicar Damien, who had been silently watching all this time, finally intervened.

The man was much sneakier than one would expect of a priest in the boonies and had the whole congregation wrapped around his finger. That he had managed to convince what should have been enemies to fight for them didn’t surprise Gerard, especially after he had been served them on a silver platter by the Hero.

Their leader turned to the two women of the council, who shared a look. Eventually, the old Alchemist sighed, “There are about sixty casters in the slums, though only twenty Journeymen I’d trust in a fight.”

That was significantly more than Gerard had expected. Twenty mages at their Second Blessing was enough to take over the whole town. No wonder the slums had not starved despite the lack of help from the local powers.

The Hero clasped his hands, staring at the map in concentration. “Very well, that’s enough to start. I want all the mages who cannot fight but want to contribute to cast [Shape Earth] or [Shape Stone] if they can and begin setting up defenses alongside the entirety of the town, slums included. Gerard, ensure that those who want to fight are capable enough. Amelia and Lia, I expect reports of any change in the enemy movements. Damien, organize your priests so they will have full mana in a day, but allow them to keep healing those who need it in the meantime. I’ll think of a place to put the paladins. Gareth, organize the auxiliaries with Gerard. By this time tomorrow, I expect us to be ready.”

Gerard stood up and saluted. He had his orders.

Chapter 14 - The Shadows Have Feelings Too - Amelia 3

Fog drifted from the sea in great banks, obscuring the visibility of anyone who didn’t have [Blindsight] or an item that conferred it. Still, soldiers and mages worked through the darkness, raising earthen walls and preparing the few artillery pieces Alpar had.

Her spirits had confirmed that it was indeed only the 104th coming their way. No ship had left Thelma’s harbor in their direction, and everyone of note was still accounted for.

Having access to unnoticeable spies made her job as Minister of Intelligence significantly easier. She didn't care much about the title, but Leonard insisted they do things properly. He said that if they wanted to bring the revolution to success, they needed to build a proper government, and Amelia didn’t care enough to fight him.

He had become the Grand Marshal of the Revolution, while the other members of the war council had received a similar title as her.

The old witch, who was now Minister for Health and Alchemical Services, had confirmed her findings, which was always good, and so Alpar had been able to use the thirty-six hours the Royal Army was projected to need to reach them to fortify their position.

Their numbers were such that they could have won even in a direct fight, but Amelia agreed with Leonard that this was only the beginning. Expending even just a tenth of their men to defeat the Loyalists would be a significant blow to their future chances. They needed to quickly overrun the initial resistance before the true might of the Royal Army could be brought to bear against them, and hopefully, by that point, they’d have enough men and weapons to match them on the field without needing to rely on Leonard’s personal might.

Amelia was pleased that he was thinking long-term. She had feared that his rage would burn hot and quick, but it had taken a colder, more dangerous edge. She did not doubt that he genuinely believed in his cause, but equally, she knew the thought of revenge for Belinda was never far from his mind.

Looking over Alpar from the courthouse’s roof, Amelia smiled privately. Not every plan came together perfectly, but things were going as she had predicted. She would need to ensure that momentum remained on their side.

She took a step forward, which should have seen her plummet to the ground, but instead, she reappeared on top of the next building. Again and again, she did so until she reached the first set of walls. It was now surrounded by two more layers of defenses, which would put any enemy attempting to storm them in a precarious situation.

Sitting on top of the gatehouse was the Hero. His gaze was lost in the rolling fog, and she knew he was thinking of his previous life, having seen him in the same condition many times.

“Is there any update on their movements?” He asked as soon as she touched down next to him.

“They are following the path we expected them to. Walking through the forest rather than on the sea road seems foolish, but that’s only because we have eyes on them. From their point of view, it’s the best way to get here unnoticed.” She replied.

“I don’t know their Captain personally, as he never took to the field during the Incursion, but I would expect him to at least realize our presence here should change some things.” Leonard shook his head.

Amelia shrugged. She was never surprised at people's stupidity. Despite the Heroic Party having proven their might on every possible occasion, many nobles still made the mistake of treating them like normal powerhouses rather than the walking weapons of mass destruction they were.

Well, maybe not all of them. Someone understood the destructive potential Leonard holds. The Void’s Dew was a pretty good attempt, considering its anti-magic and anti-light properties. It just wasn’t enough.

“Any report from our scouts?” Leonard asked.

“They should be making contact soon. I doubt they’ll make a sizable dent in their numbers, but they have been instructed to exact a heavy psychological toll.” She replied, lips curling in amusement. She would have joined them in the fun if she hadn’t been enough to defeat the entirety of the 104th by herself. They needed the victory to come from the people, after all. With Leonard leading them in a very visible way.

“Any change in the forces inside Thelma?” He wondered idly. There was no one truly threatening they knew of, but the calculus would change depending on the forces arrayed before them. Considering their plans for the immediate future after the battle, keeping an eye on Thelma even while preparing to fight the 104th was a no-brainer.

“No. The one Third Blessing slave attending to the Mayor is still there, and I don’t expect him to let her out of his sight anytime soon. Dandelion De Hoop is arrogant and conceited but also has a powerful self-preservation instinct. He knows that there is a good chance of someone going for his life to throw the town in disarray.” She replied.

Leonard nodded, likely having expected as much, “Thelma has enough mages that they could pose a problem if they got together with the 104th and local police force. We were lucky they have split themselves up for us.”

That was true. Thelma was richer and larger in population than Alpar, being a much more frequented market for local and foreign merchants. However, it was still just a town and didn’t have the resources to oppose them, especially if those few they had were mismanaged.

“I’m tempted to say that it used to be easier in the past, but it’s not true, is it?” He chuckled.

“Our enemies were clearly marked back then, but they didn’t make the same tactical blunders. Voidlings just swarmed everywhere, and there were always more of them, so getting a few killed in a foolhardy advance wasn’t much of a problem.” Amelia replied, thinking back to the war.

Having been personally chosen by the king for her prowess, she hadn’t had much of a chance to refuse. Joining the Heroic Party was supposed to be a massive honor, and for an adventurer like her, it was an opportunity that would never come again.

However, Amelia had been burned too many times and had gone into it with her eyes open. It was a good thing because she was sure she would have died multiple times if she had trusted the noble commanders to do their jobs.

Leonard sighed, standing up. He was a tall and powerful man, handsome enough to make any maiden blush with his regard, yet his eyes held only sadness when he looked at her, “We both know that this coming war is not that different from the last. If we allow the parasites that suckle the life from Haylich to continue, they will not stop until nothing is left. The Void was openly an enemy of all, but these people are too. You, of all people, should know it.”

Amelia grimaced. She didn’t like remembering her past and didn’t appreciate Leonard bringing it up. The Brander Republic’s civil war had been a terrible thing. While the country might now look like a shining example of order and magical research, she could only see burning buildings and dying families when she thought about it.

“Civil wars are terrible things, Leonard. They tear apart the fabric of a society. Brothers and sisters can kill each other without regret, all because of a greater cause.” She replied. Amelia wasn’t averse to asymmetric warfare; propaganda was right up her alley, which was why she respected it. She had seen firsthand what it could lead to.

“And that is why I trust you to do your job. You are the only one to know just how dangerous the power you wield is.” He told her, taking her hand, “Amelia, you have personally seen the danger we face. You have lived it on your skin. I know any action you take will be necessary. And that if you see me going too far, you won’t hesitate to pull me back.”

This was why she could never abandon him, no matter his high ideals and impossible beliefs. Leonard was a man too pure for this world, and at the same time, he understood its darkness better than everyone but her. She would kill thousands, if not millions, of innocents for him. It used to scare her.

In the far distance, feeble rays of light began to brighten the horizon, piercing through the dense fog. A new dawn was coming to Haylich, and it would herald a day like never before.

A flicker of shadow broke Amelia out of her contemplation, and she knelt to receive one of her contracted spirits. The small, round spirit buzzed in excitement and quickly broke apart, transferring its memory to her.

Amelia straightened, “The scouts have started harassing the main force,” she said, earning a fierce grin, “they seem incapable of stopping them and have closed the ranks to prevent anyone from being picked off.”

Leonard’s eyes glowed with intensity, “And so it has started.”

“I still have a few things to do, but I’ll join you before the next update,” Amelia said, earning a nod. With a few steps, she was halfway across the town. Here, the golden light of the morning was more prominent as the sea winds blew away the fog. The Temple glowed beautifully with the first rays of dawn, a white stone construction with two large spires at the sides and an ornate archway at the entrance. Even here, the clergy lived well.

Walking out of it was the man Amelia was looking for. With one last step, she materialized before him, making the vicar blink in surprise.

“If only the people knew our new Minister of Intelligence enjoyed playing pranks on poor, unsuspecting priests!” He exclaimed jokingly.

Amelia resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “How are things on your end?”

Damien dropped the smile, expression becoming more serious, “As expected, the senior temple staff in Thelma is mostly resistant to my efforts, but the younger members are much more open to believing. They didn’t see the Divine Light descending directly, but everyone with an ounce of spiritual sense felt its presence.”

“How resistant are we talking about?” Amelia asked, already beginning to alter her plans for Thelma. She would have her hands full, but the relative weakness of the people there would allow her to operate uncontested when the time came.

Damien sighed, straightening his robes. “They aren’t ideologically opposed; it’s just that they haven’t witnessed the Hero with their own eyes, having been kept from joining the efforts during the Incursion by the Lord Mayor. They should change their tune once they get a good look at him.”

That was good enough for her. Amelia didn’t particularly care for the clergy, seeing them simply as another institution that worked tirelessly to monopolize an essential facet of magic. Still, she realized their support was necessary to get conquered people on their side.

“Good. How are your people doing in mana reserves?” She asked.

Damien scoffed, “I’m not so foolish to allow them to deplete themselves before a battle. We only healed as much as we could before closing service early. I doubt we’ll need to perform anything above the second tier, but it’s good practice to have enough mana on hand to perform [Raise Dead] if necessary.”

Amelia nodded in satisfaction. It was always nice to have capable allies. Damien himself was on the cusp of reaching his Third Blessing, and she didn’t doubt he’d get it during the coming campaign, but his greatest ability was that he had been taught how to perform Rituals and thus could use the mana provided by his congregation to enact Spells a tier above himself.

She doubted it’d be needed, with Leonard more than capable of resurrecting the entirety of the 105th by himself, but she hadn’t gotten to where she was by being lax.

“Good. I’ll see you soon, then.” Without another word, she left. Luck would have no role in the coming fight, so there was no need to call upon it.

Chapter 15 - A Rat Doesn't Know It's Sinking - Vlad 1

Waking up to the emergency bell was always annoying. Vlad tried his best to ignore the sound, but it was magically enhanced, meaning there was no escaping the infernal racket.

It continued to ring while he dressed, putting on the army uniform, relishing in the cleanliness. Dry socks were always taken as a given by the spoiled brats who joined up to get some achievements under their name, but Vlad knew just what a luxury they were.

His pack was already waiting for him at the foot of his bed, having been ordered a day prior. Everyone had been curious as to why the command had been given, and it looked like they were about to find out, though he had his suspicions.

He looked at his reflection in the murky mirror atop the bathroom sink and nodded. While he wouldn’t say he was handsome, as Vlad had never cared much for physical beauty, he still cut an intimidating figure. His dark eyes and scars ensured no one crossed him lightly, and if that wasn’t enough, his absent pinky let everyone know he was a hardened man.

His squad mates were still in the process of getting ready when he left. He hadn’t made any friends among them, considering them kids with no idea of how harsh the world was. They had been allowed to stay on the fringes of the fighting during the Incursion and had gotten a big head out of the minor skirmishes with Voidlings they participated in.

People rushed through the large open area where the troops usually trained. Most of those present were slaves, with a few soldiers who coordinated their efforts.

Vlad had never particularly cared for their plight. They were the lowest social class and did nothing to get out of their predicament. Even prey animals in the wild bucked and fought when captured, but slaves allowed their masters to do anything.

The collars do a lot, but it wouldn’t be enough to keep me from shanking anyone who tried to get me. I wouldn’t allow it.

While usually, he would rush to the mess hall to get the best of the available slop, the emergency bell meant that everyone needed to get to the gathering plaza, where they’d stand at attention until the Captain addressed them.

While Vlad didn’t like the man, he knew him to be a decent fighter and not a complete idiot. He wouldn’t have rung the bell if it wasn’t necessary. Especially because it hadn’t been used since the Hero defeated the last of the monsters coming from the great beyond.

I hope they haven’t found leftovers. The damn Hero can fight them himself for all I care. He’s certainly enjoyed killing them enough.

Despite his thoughts, Vlad knew it wasn’t likely. Voidlings weren’t stupid, but they wouldn’t have kept quiet for four months before revealing themselves, and the Heroic Party had thoroughly combed the Darkwood to prevent precisely that.

More likely, one of the local menaces was finally feeling safe enough to come out of hiding.

Vlad knew of at least two Necromancers hiding in the forest, and they kept an extremely low profile while the Hero pranced around. The corpses strewn around the battlefield were less a gift and more a curse since anyone found gathering them would be erased from existence with prejudice.

He just hoped it wasn’t pirates. Those were always annoying to fight, and if they were being called, it meant they weren’t run-of-the-mill ones that the Navy could handle by themselves. Privateers supported by Hammerfest or the Handriatic Union coming to their shores meant a long campaign to deter them.

For the past couple of days, orders had been given to ensure their readiness, which meant the higher-ups should have an idea of what they were up against, but surprisingly, no one had blabbed so far.

Finally arriving at the designated meeting place, Vlad hurried to take his place next to one of the few men he was on talking terms with. “Tusk! What’s going on?”

Tusk, who as always stood a head above anyone else, turned to regard him with a grin, “Lo’ Nine Fingers, got your nap interrupted?”

“Nah, fresh as a daisy.” Vlad snarked back, scanning the surroundings. Soldiers were still filing in, looking mightily confused. Enough so that he was sure the cause of the emergency wasn’t known.

As if to confirm his thought, Tusk replied, “No one knows, but the Captain is all worked up. It must be something pretty big if he thinks he should come with us.”

Vlad nodded in agreement. Captain Vettel was an ambitious man who wouldn’t risk his life to fight against simple pirates. That he was preparing to march with them meant whatever it was, was pretty big. He wouldn’t move if he didn’t think it would bring him renown and achievements.

Or if he can’t get away with it. It might be something that has a real noble upset.

It took a good half an hour before the ranks were complete and then fifteen more minutes before the Captain appeared. That in itself was enough to eliminate a few options. If Vettel thought he could take his time, no imminent attack on the town was coming.

He was a short man with broad shoulders and a severe expression. His blue cap was held tightly in his fingers, and he wore his sword at his side. It was enough to understand that a fight was waiting for them.

“Atten-tion!” A Sergeant yelled, and the 104th snapped a salute.

The Captain walked before them with heavy steps. He scrutinized them silently as if trying to determine their worth.

Most are just braggarts and kids. If you are looking for a great army, you better look in Garva. They keep dying against the Wastes Tribes, so at least some Corps are bound to be decent.

Finally, Vettel broke his silence. “Soldiers of the 104th! Today, we have received orders from Lord De Hoop, in compliance with Royal Law, to muster up and begin marching east!”

East? What the fuck is there to fight? Is it Voidlings still, then? The only thing that came from there was the Incursion. There shouldn’t be enough people alive to make problems…

“A great betrayal has taken place! The man who many knew as the Hero has committed a grave sin, slaying his bride-to-be, and has seized control of the town of Alpar in his madness. We have been ordered to free the good citizens from his yoke!”

Complete stillness followed his words as the soldiers tried to process what they had just heard. Vlad wasn’t doing much better. While he didn’t personally know the Hero, he had seen him several times during the Incursion. That the man who had selflessly jumped into battle to defend innocent civilians could become a tyrant felt like a stretch.

But then again, it’s not really my problem if that’s the truth. He might have gone crazy, or he might have just lost the political game of the great nobles. Now that I think about it, that’s much more likely. If he overreached, it makes sense for an entire Corp to be dispatched to kill him. He might be just a man, but the Hero is still the Hero. If he has some support among the men there, he might have mustered a decent defense, and a lot of people are gonna die just to kill him.

The Hero had to be at least a Fourth Blessing powerhouse, a Master. Vlad had heard he might even have reached the vaunted rank of Champion, but that felt more like idle speculation. If he was that strong, the Lord Mayor wouldn’t have sent just the 104th, and Captain Vettel wouldn’t have accepted.

“Many of you might be confused, but you must harden your hearts! We are called to answer any threat, whether foreign or domestic. That means that even if it is a man who served the realm like the Hero who raises his sword to break the King’s Peace, he must pay!”

A subdued cheer went up. The prospect of a fight was enticing, especially to the younger soldiers who hadn’t been able to participate against the Void, but they all knew it wouldn’t be an easy task. The Hero had made a name for himself.

Seeing that his men weren’t convinced, Captain Vettel visibly changed tracks. “The man has gone so far as to free all slaves and seize the possessions of nobles and merchants alike! We have reports of many being hung for the mere crime of having blue blood!”

That was more interesting. Vlad was savvy enough to realize he shouldn’t believe everything spewing from an official, but with propaganda, there was usually some truth mixed in. If the Hero had truly seized the entire town’s riches for himself and gone so far as to free the slaves to have some fodder to throw at them…

“Lord De Hoop has granted us leave to participate in the accrued wealth once we complete our task!” Vettel concluded, and the cheer that met his words this time was much louder.

And there it is. They must really want him gone if they went so far as to promise to give us several noble houses’ wealth. Well, Alpar is a shithole, as far as I know, so there shouldn’t be anything ridiculous, but money is money. They sell a lot of slaves there, so they should have enough gold coins to please even the most risk-averse.

Vlad was self-aware enough to realize that he was also falling into the scheme. If he managed to get his hands on a portion of the hoard, he might be able to retire and get himself a pretty, young wife with whom to pop out a few sprogs.

He wasn’t an attractive man, but wealth and safety had a charm of their own. He would have the pick of the litter once he came back, and if he didn’t find any who suited his tastes, he could always buy himself a slave.

Mmm… Why not both? A wife to make children and a slave to have fun. Not like the nobles don’t do it. I’ll have to find a girl who doesn’t make a fuss about it, but at least I’ll be able to shut her up with a few gifts if it’s needed. And if that doesn’t work, the back of my hand will.

It took another hour before the 104th was ready to march, but the excitement was palpable. Their reticence at fighting the Hero had disappeared like snow under the summer sun, and all everyone could think of now was the wealth that awaited for them.

The Sergeants had tried to explain that they would take the longer route to prevent the rebels from learning of their coming, but people weren’t paying attention. Vlad had, of course, but he could see them visibly decide it wasn’t worth wasting their voice as long as the man kept marching.

“I think I’ll buy a good farm and retire once this is all done,” Tusk commented from beside him.

Vlad had known the man for many years, and they were both coming to the end of their contracts. Retiring after a major victory like this would suit them well. “You’ll be alone if you don’t buy yourself a slave, with how ugly your mug is.” He replied, deftly avoiding the meaty arm coming his way in retaliation.

“Maybe I will,” Tusk groaned, “Do you think I’ll need to go to Lamprey Port to find myself an elf? Or even all the way to Treon?”

Vlad snorted. Tusk was a talented fighter, but his brain wasn’t his best attribute. “Elf slaves go for hundreds of gold coins. Even with the loot we’ll find in Alpar, you could probably only buy a sick one. Better to find a decent human woman or a hobgoblin if that’s your thing.”

The muscular man rubbed at his beard in contemplation. “I really wanted an elf, but if they are too expensive, I might have to just taste one in a brothel for one night and then buy a normal slave.”

Rolling his eyes, Vlad stopped paying attention to the man’s ramblings. He’d probably spend his whole earnings on whores.

With the Darkwood looming before them, he started focusing more. He’d be surprised if the Hero didn’t have some men guarding the main routes to Alpar, and while the 104th’s numbers and equipment would see them quickly overwhelmed, they might have the time to get an arrow out.

And I’m not gonna let a stray arrow stop me from getting to my gold.

Chapter 16 - Walking Into a Trap Is a Choice - Leonard 10

“Sir! Group 1 has made contact and retreated with success.” A young soldier reported, almost vibrating with energy.

Leonard nodded sharply, moving one of the figurines in the shape of a hooded ranger across the map splayed over the table. He was in the war room this time, despite his tendency to handle battles from the frontlines.

“Very well. Return to your post and come back if there is any further information.” He replied, dismissing the soldier, who saluted and marched out.

“I think he would have burst into flames if you looked at him directly.” Oliver joked from where he was busy parsing through the reports from the many scouts observing the approaching army.

Some were in Hylean, the local language, and others in Elvish. Those came from the two [Night Hunters] Amelia had summoned, as they were the lowest form capable of speech and writing. Since Elvish was a Fae Tongue, despite its closeness with mortal languages, they could use it to communicate.

It was overkill, as the two elementals would have been enough, by themselves, to face the entire 104th. The Captain was probably the only one present who could face them directly, but the rest would be fodder against a Third Tier creature. Instead, they were being used to report on their movements so that the rangers Leonard had dispatched could conduct their harassment without fearing counter-ambushes.

The fact that Group 1, which Gareth led, had completed its mission meant that things were coming together.

Not that Leonard expected any different, as the men were all experienced adventurers, but it was good to have confirmation. Their success meant that the heaviest artillery the 104th had brought along, and the only equipment they had that could do significant damage to Alpar’s defenses, was stuck in the mud, with its wheels broken beyond repair.

“You weren’t much better when we first met,” Leonard reminded his squire while removing a cannon from the cluster of figurines representing the enemy.

The boy grumbled but returned to his job, taking the light rebuke with good spirit.

They are getting close; I should start getting ready soon. We might engage directly within the hour if they keep pushing and abandon the heavy artillery like I think they will.

Gerard couldn’t offer much about what the enemy commander, Captain Vettel, would do, but he seemed convinced that the man was arrogant and self-assured, confirmed by his marching on Alpar with just his men. Had he taken a contingent of mages and healers, Leonard would have treated him as a more canny foe, but for the moment, nothing showed that the man understood precisely what he’d face.

At least he had been wise enough to avoid sending any more rangers out by themselves after the first few disappeared in the Darkwood, never to return. Still, that only made them tighten the ranks and not reevaluate their strategy.

Greed is a powerful force. Little will stop them if they think they can loot Alpar with little losses. Our actions probably look desperate to them.

With practiced movements, Leonard put on his armor. Oliver should technically do it for him, but he was serving a more important role at the moment, and becoming the Grand Marshal had yet to make his head swell, despite what Amelia said to tease him.

Ten minutes later, his prediction became reality as the same soldier rushed into the war room. “Sir! The watchers have spotted the enemy!”

“Very well. Oliver, get ready to move. Lia, I will leave the coordination of any further intelligence to you.” Leonard stated resolutely. The energy around him changed, going from expectant to focused. There was a heaviness in his words that ensured no one gainsaid him as they all moved to obey. Even the old hobgoblin nodded mutely, taking the stack of papers Oliver handed her without a snarky remark.

Soon after, Leonard strode outside the courthouse, his squire decked in silverite armor behind him. It wasn’t as mighty as his own mithril one - which was considered a National Treasure and technically belonged to the Temple - but it was by far the best that could be found in the south. He had needed to call in a couple of favors to have one of Garva’s best Artificers enchant it so it would grow alongside the boy, which had significantly levitated the cost. Still, it was something Leonard didn’t mind spending on.

They made for an intimidating sight as they marched down the street, joined by a guard of the 105th soldiers who sported their full gear. Armed to the teeth, the men who had faced the Void for years and never backed down would now fight against their countrymen. By the cheers of the populace, the well wishes and prayers directed their way, Alpar stood with them.

It was the reason why Leonard had not ordered a complete lockdown of the town. It was important for the people to see the men who would bleed and die for them march, just as it was so for the soldiers to remember who it was they fought for.

They reached the western gate and were let through after a round of salutes. Before the walls, a vast area of earthen walls and pits made for an intimidating sight. Any army who carelessly tried to maneuver around the Revolutionaries’ main body would quickly fall into the traps prepared for them. They would slow down enough to be easy pickings.

Leonard believed there wouldn’t be much need for the traps, despite the hard work that went into preparing them, as the 104th shouldn’t be able to hold against the direct assault he would lead, but just in case something went wrong, he had ordered they be prepared nonetheless.

Around them, the rebel army was arrayed, waiting for the moment they’d be called upon. Given their apparent readiness, Leonard believed they had already been informed of the enemy’s closeness.

Reaching the forward command position, which was made of an open, large tent with a series of chairs and tables laden with a similar map to the one he was observing just before coming, Leonard received the salute of his officers.

Gerard, Gareth, and all the other ranking members of the fledgling army stood and paid respect to the Grand Marshal, who waved them back to their position.

“Has there been any change?” Leonard asked.

“Nothing new. So far, everything has gone as planned. They even left the heavy artillery behind in the Darkwood, which we already sent a team to collect.” Gerard replied, looking out beyond the defenses. “We should be able to spot them within a few minutes now.”

He was right. Despite their losses marching through the Darkwood, the 104th Corp of the Royal Army exited the forest in neat ranks. The soldiers were focused and armed to the teeth, evidently ready for a hard fight after what they went through.

Of the six hundred men that had been observed exiting Thelma, about fifty were missing. Some were scouts who had been picked off the moment they left the safety of the army’s main body, while others had fallen to traps, ambushes, or even the natural fauna of the Darkwood, which had begun repopulating in the months since the Incursion.

The captain’s horse had been one of the first victims of the ambushes, so the man was forced to walk alongside his men, but to his credit, he did so with dignity.

The 104th drew up before the first set of fortifications, a mile away from Alpar’s walls, and started setting up. The tanks removed their shields from their backs, building a wall to protect them from most long-range weapons. Behind them, the marksmen took position, aiming their firearms at the empty space between the fortifications. Their weapons had little to do with Earth’s modern ones, instead looking much like old-school muskets, with glowing lines running along their length and a blue crystal sticking out of the back, serving as ammunition.

Mana weaponry was the primary firearm in Haylich and the rest of the world. It was a significant improvement over archery, as people at their First Blessing could kill Second and, if they were exceptionally lucky, even Third Tier enemies with minimal training. They were more expensive to make, but their production had long since been streamlined, and industries all across the kingdom produced a vast quantity. Enough that some people said they would replace mages too, though Leonard knew that to be incorrect, as they weren’t nearly as flexible.

Still, mana muskets were a dangerous weapon, even in the hands of an Apprentice. They could recharge the crystals with their own supply in a few minutes, though they could only do so a couple of times a day.

Leonard’s men drew up, the tanks taking the first line while the rest arranged behind them. They planned to resist the initial barrage and force the 104th to come to them, but the enemy didn’t seem intentioned to go along with their wishes.

A first exchange of gunfire exploded before Leonard could reach the backlines. Mana weaponry was almost silent as it shot since the bullets were not corporeal, but the explosions the bullets caused as they crashed against the tanks were deafening.

Reinforced shields, held by Journeymen tanks, could hold almost indefinitely against light fire. The heavier cannons would have been different, which that was why they had been targeted first.

A few minutes later, the enemy stopped firing, and Leonard lifted a hand, signaling for his men to stop, too, though they could have kept going, as they had several mages in reserve that could recharge the crystals.

Fearlessly, he walked through the ranks until he reached the front lines. This part of his plan had seen the most pushback from his council, but Leonard couldn’t be moved.

He let go of his aura for the first time since his trial. Power flooded through his veins, and it immediately affected the environment.

The sunlight shone brighter, chasing away shadows, and the men under his command stood straighter, their hearts full of courage.

The 104th seemed to falter under the weight of his presence. They had known he would be there, but it seemed not many understood what it would mean.

“My friends!” His voice broke through the stillness that had settled over the battlefield at his appearance, enhanced enough that everyone could hear him clearly. “You are here today because you have been deceived! Not just by your Captain, though I’m sure he is responsible too. You have been deceived by the King and your Lord, who ordered you to march here, knowing you’d die by my sword. You’ve been deceived the moment you were told other lives were worth less than yours, while those who said so profited from the spilling of your blood. Lay down your arms and join me. Join the cause of the Light!” Leonard thundered, and as he finished, he lifted his sword from its sheath and pointed it at the sky.

A blinding flash of light followed as holy power coursed through the blade. [Halo of the Righteous], a Master Tier spell, settled over Alpar’s defenders. Strength beyond their ability coursed through their veins, and any doubt they might have had disappeared as certainty filled their hearts.

Across the enemy lines, a dozen men let go of their weapons and ran, their resolve broken by the presence of the Light. More seemed ready to join them but were stopped by a [Commanding Shout].

“Traitors!” Captain Vettel screamed as much at Leonard as to his own men. “Don’t listen to him! He betrayed his oaths and now wants to take us down with him. Men! Prepare to charge! We’ll free Alpar from this madman before the day is over!”

It wasn’t a grandiose speech, but the skill did its job, stopping any further defection.

Leonard sighed in sadness. He could have pushed more power into his aura to break their resolve, but he was already interfering more than he’d like. Squaring his shoulders, he sealed their fate.

“For Freedom!” He shouted and began to run, and his men roared in response, following him without hesitation.

Chapter 17 - Actions Speak Louder than Words - Gerard 3

I have fought many times against many things. I have killed men and monsters, knights and mages. I have led warbands of desperate soldiers and participated in mass mobilizations organized by great generals. All those experiences didn’t prepare me for this.

Gerard shifted slightly to the left, allowing his opponent to overcommit to the strike, which he brutally punished. He didn’t even bother looking at the man fall, pushing forward to engage a knight who was somehow being held back by the efforts of two Apprentice soldiers.

While he knew that his men were of a higher quality than most of Hetnia’s troops, even at parity of Blessing, there should still have been a significant difference between them and a Knight. Most believed that ratio to be five to one, but Gerard knew it was closer to seven to one, as the average soldier wouldn’t hold long after seeing their companions cut in two by a greatsword.

What was happening all over the battlefield should have been impossible. The elites of the 104th, who had been sent forward alongside the tanks, were struggling to face the common soldiers of the 105th. They hadn’t made any progress in pushing forward, and this was considering that the best of Alpar’s defenders still hadn’t made contact with the enemy.

Gerard wasn’t ashamed to admit that he had doubted the Grand Marshal when he proposed allowing the ordinary troops to receive the initial charge, as he had seen too many men sent to their deaths by incompetent commanders with dreams of grandeur. Still, looking at the battlefield, he had to reconsider. It seemed like the Hero knew what he was talking about.

Whatever buff he had applied to the defenders was a light-sent miracle. It might even be a literal one, considering who I’m talking about here. If anyone can wield Holy power to grant a Blessing, it is him.

It was an absurd thought, one that Gerard knew very well was impossible. If a single man had the ability to grant a Blessing, they would become a god… And yet, it wouldn’t leave his mind.

He kicked the harried knight back, allowing the two soldiers to spread out and help others, before bringing his sword down in a heavy blow; the man barely managed to deflect it.

Even his own strength was far above what he was used to. Gerard knew he was a powerful man but also knew his limits very well. He wasn’t using any enhancing skill, having long learned to pace himself in battle, and yet he was cutting through dangerous opponents like a farmer in a wheat field.

Even this knight couldn’t do much beyond shout his curses and backpedal as Gerard pressed his advantage. His feet always found sure ground, and his eyes didn’t miss any movement. Feints didn’t work; everything happened precisely as he had visualized it.

Things went exactly as they should to ensure their victory. He brought down his sword again, and this time, he broke through the man’s guard, ending his life in a spray of blood.

Looking ahead, Gerard noticed the enemy line was beginning to bend inwards. It didn’t take much to realize that someone, possibly the Hero himself, had started pushing back. Knowing how powerful he was thanks to a spar they had soon after the man arrived in Alpar, Gerard put his safety out of his mind. No one in the 104th could harm that man.

Moving around, he sought to break up fights where his men were being overwhelmed, as should be the case in a regular battle, but it simply didn’t happen. Every strike that should have injured them was avoided with the ease of a veteran dancing around a novice. Every attack of theirs was conducted with a fluidity that didn’t belong.

I need to stop trying to fit this battle into what I know. The Hero told me I’d need to stay flexible, and he was right. If he’s pushing forward, I’ll do the same.

It wasn’t easy for him to leave his men behind, having spent years during the Incursion carefully protecting their lives, as more soldiers weren’t coming to relieve them. But he still did it, trusting in the queer magic to hold. As things stood, he was wasted in the backlines.

With a prodigious leap over an earthen wall, Gerard reached where the fighting was the thickest. The narrow space between the fortifications they had built didn’t allow many to pass, thus allowing the defenders to swarm those few who tried to open a breach. It was an intelligent stratagem, showing that the Hero didn’t put all his hopes into his buff seeing them through the day.

Pushing through the throngs of soldiers, Gerard finally entered the open field, where the bulk of the enemy army was. Ahead of him, he saw Sir Gareth fighting against two enemy knights at the same time, but he didn’t seem to require help as he danced around them, leading the two experienced fighters by their noses.

Flashes of light reflected off the disgraced warrior’s blade as it struck out repeatedly, snapping like a snake and punishing any mistake. Gerard could see Sir Gareth enjoying himself, a feral grin painted on his features. It distorted his expression, ruining the pretty face many a maiden had swooned for, but it somehow looked more right than his usual frown.

He avoided interfering, knowing instinctually that it wasn’t his place to do so.

Beyond them was who he was looking for. The enemy commander and his fellow Captain, Vettel, was fighting against three soldiers and pushing them back. Around him, bodies were strewn, showing that even the incredible power the Hero had granted his men had its limits.

Somehow, rather than scaring Gerard, this made his heart lighter. He didn’t relish the death of his fellows, but knowing he wasn’t dealing with an actual god was relieving.

Pushing those considerations aside for the moment, he closed the distance in three long steps, the wind blowing at his sides. Gerard intercepted a blow that would have decapitated one of his men with his sword, using the other to grab onto the soldier and throw him back, signaling for the other two to retreat.

“Vettel!” he greeted, bringing his weapon forward in an opening stance.

“Dortmund! What kind of witchery have you sold yourself for? Have you fallen so low?!” His opponent screamed, eyes darting across the battlefield as he beheld the same thing Gerard had observed.

Even without the powerhouses taking the field, Alpar’s defenders would win the day if things continued as they were. He couldn’t see the Hero from where he was, but he doubted the man was lazing about, which meant the eastern flank should be wrapping things up soon.

“No witchery unless you count Holy Magic among the forbidden arts.” He replied with a hint of humor. Despite everything, he slightly regretted that he wouldn’t be able to duel Captain Vettel fairly, as the unnatural strength bestowed upon him by the Hero showed no sign of waning.

Still, he would do his duty. A moment of stillness followed his words as the two Captains took the measure of each other. They both knew each other in passing, being roughly the same age and holding the same position in nearby towns, but they had never clashed blades before. Gerard hadn’t even seen Vettel fight during the Incursion, as the man stayed in his town and only occasionally led an assault. Nevertheless, he knew from reliable sources that Vettel was a skilled swordsman, so he wouldn’t underestimate him, enhancements or not.

He took a deep breath, and they were off.

With a snarl of defiance, Vettel lunged forward, his sword cutting through the air in a swift, elegant arc aimed at Gerard's side. The blade, imbued with the sheen of a [Decapitating Strike], promised a deadly bite, but Gerard was buoyed by uncanny strength and met the attack head-on. His sword, a broad, heavy blade that thrummed with more mana than he had ever infused it with, clashed against Vettel's with a deafening clang that sent sparks flying.

Again, the enemy commander tried to press forward, [Decapitating Strike] licking out with great accuracy. Again, it was stopped without even the need for Gerard to call upon a skill of his own.

Each blow from Vettel was swift and precise, aimed with the expertise of a great swordsman. Yet, for all his talent, he found himself increasingly on the back foot as Gerard pressed the advantage, his enhanced strength turning each defensive parry into an arduous task.

Vettel's frustration boiled over into rage as he found his usual finesse and swordplay insufficient against the raw power facing him. "Curse you, Dortmund! What devil have you sold your soul to?" he spat, attempting a risky feint followed by a [Ghost Slash], a maneuver designed to outpace and outmaneuver a slower foe that was taught to anyone who reached the Third Blessing in the Royal Army.

But Gerard, reading the deceit with unnatural clarity, sidestepped and countered with a [Heavy Smash]. It was the first skill he called upon that day, and the effects were brutal. Usually, it was just a skill that combined brute force with a crushing overhead swing; it was considered too slow to truly threaten an experienced fighter.

Vettel barely managed to raise his sword in time. The impact drove him to one knee as the ground beneath his feet cracked from the force.

Around them, a crowd of soldiers had formed. Attackers and defenders eyed each other warily, but somehow, they all knew the results of this duel were much more important than any fight they might have among each other.

Gerard was relentless and seemed like a figure from legend; each attack he delivered was more forceful and determined than the last.

Vettel, evidently sensing the tide turning irreversibly against him, called upon his last reserves of strength and mana, activating what Gerard recognized as [Swordmaster's Grace], a high-level skill that enhanced his speed and agility to supernatural levels but took a significant toll. For a moment, he became a blur, his blade dancing around Gerard in a desperate flurry of strikes aiming to find a chink in the Captain's armor.

Rather than retreating as expected, Gerard calmly called upon [Bastion's Resolve], a defensive skill that made him nearly impervious to the onslaught, his form steady as a rock amidst the storm of steel. Each of Vettel's strikes only met the unyielding force of his defense. He wouldn’t have dared to use it in normal circumstances, as the cost was too great, but now he could.

With things clearly skewed in Gerard's favor, the duel reached its climax as Vettel pushed beyond his limits and made one final, desperate charge. His sword licked out, trying to catch him by surprise, but he was punished for it.

A gasp left the spectators as Gerard’s heavy greatsword cleaved cleanly through Vettel’s right arm, sending it and the sword it held clattering to the ground.

The man shouted in shock and pain, dropping to his knees and clutching at his stump with desperation. Even his powerful enchanted steel armor hadn’t been enough to protect him from Gerard’s attack.

That was the last straw, as the attacking force lost its collective will. Already, Gerard could see dozens of men fleeing towards the Darkwood from the eastern flank and knew the Grand Marshal had achieved his own victory.

“Charge them down!” He yelled, even as he moved to grab his opponent and drag him away from the thick of the fighting. Personally, he wouldn’t mind if the man died, but he was sure Lady Amelia would have words for him if he allowed such a valuable source of information to slip from their fingers.

As he walked back, he saw soldiers celebrating, others running towards the retreating enemy with glee, and even more groaning on the ground, though there were almost no dying ones.

Finally, he came across an even stranger sight. A group of enemy soldiers were kneeling, bearing the standard on the 104th. They showed no sign of aggression, which made Gerard blink in confusion.

The cause of this was quickly revealed as the Hero walked over to them; in his resplendent armor, bearing a holy sword at his side and his figure glowing with warm Light; it seemed that the men had seen no other recourse than to throw themselves at his mercy.

Chapter 18 - Obsidian is Brittle, but Oh So Sharp - Damien 1

Young soldiers often believed war to be a glorious endeavor. In a way, it could be. Defeating the forces of the Void had been one such case. It was as morally uncomplicated as war could be, and even then, Damien had seen his fair share of tragedy.

All wars, even those deemed most holy, eventually devolved into utilitarian calculus. Generals and kings would decide just how many men they could afford to lose and how many civilians would die with their every choice. It wasn’t their fault, at least not entirely. It was simply the way things were.

Having been at the Hero’s side for years, Damien learned there was a solution to the seemingly unending tide of blood and tears.

Absolute power had a way of simplifying complex situations. Most conflicts arise from blurred lines between power levels. If a country believed it could invade a weaker neighbor without repercussions, they are likely to do so. They would launch a larger expedition if they perceived the neighbor to be on a similar power scale. When confronted by a significantly stronger adversary, they would attempt to hunker down and present themselves as unappealing as possible.

But what happens when someone is so much stronger than you that even thinking of resisting seems foolish? When you can feel the immense power such a being wields on your skin and know, deep within, that every breath you take is because they allow it?

The answers to those questions were playing out before his eyes. The men of the 104th, one of the few Corps in southeastern Hetnia to have survived the Incursion almost unscathed, were throwing down their arms and begging for mercy.

“I yield! I yield!” A man screamed, his forehead bent to the ground.

A quick glance informed Damien that the soldier was fairly strong, belonging to the upper tier of the Second Blessing. However, it paled in comparison to the entity facing him.

Wreathed in a golden aura, Leonard Weiss, the Holy Hero, gazed down with kind eyes. Surprising many, he kneeled down and placed his gloved hands on the soldier’s shoulders, helping him up so they could look at each other eye to eye.

“My good man, do not be afraid. I can feel in your heart that you did not come here out of greed but because you believed the people of Alpar truly needed your help. I do not punish good men.” The Hero said, and his words spread through the nearby soldiers like wildfire.

More threw down their arms, begging for the same mercy. Damien knew very well that the majority of these people had come with the full intention of looting the town and helping themselves to the women. But the newly formed court was already too busy processing the slave owners of Alpar. Adding hundreds of soldiers would make their job impossible.

And we need the numbers. They can earn their forgiveness by working, which coincidentally is the same path they chose for themselves. He really thinks of everything.

The weeping man grabbed Leonard’s hands and thanked him again, swearing he would never forget the kindness showed to him.

Damien made a note to recruit this Matheus for his Temple Guard. Good men were hard to find these days, and those with a fighting talent were even rarer. It would be a pity if he got killed by an artillery strike the moment they reached Thelma’s walls. They had fodder for that if they ever needed it.

An angry shout rang through the battlefield as a massive man ran to their position, waving a huge axe over his head.

“Cowards!” he screamed. “Stand up and fight! Traitors!”

There was bound to be one like that. Some people are just too stubborn to accept their defeat, even if it’s all but inevitable.

With his senses, Damien had already noticed the defeat of the enemy commander and the subsequent collapse of the western lines. Sir Gerard and Sir Gareth had completed their duties without much trouble, enhanced as they were by the Hero’s spell.

Still, one last obstacle remained before the battle could be declared over. Soldiers on both sides made space for the large man, who closed the distance quickly.

At least he had the good sense to allow Matheus, who had just surrendered, time to leave. Damien gestured for the man to join him, and he did, albeit hesitantly.

“Observe carefully.” He said, and thankfully, the man obeyed.

Leonard drew himself up. His face, unobstructed by a helmet, regarded the challenger impassively. Faint whips of power left his form, unable to be contained. He drew his sword and nodded, accepting the duel.

Surprisingly, the massive soldier gave him the same respect before grinning widely. “I’ve always wanted to fight you, Hero. I heard too many stories about your battles. Let’s see if you are as strong as they say.”

Leonard visibly sighed, but Damien knew him well enough to realize it was mostly an act. The Hero, despite his righteousness, truly enjoyed a good challenge. While no one on the battlefield today could pose a threat to him, save maybe for the Mistress of Shadows skulking about somewhere, he still liked straightforward enemies.

“Very well. I am Leonard Weiss, Grand Marshal of the Revolutionary Army. I accept your challenge.” The words, though not said at a high volume, were still heard by everyone. The few remaining fights halted as everyone turned to pay attention to the duel.

Most enemy soldiers had already broken, and a few had fled, but having a clear sign that the fighting was over like this would help round them up without a fuss. Having to kill them all would be a terrible waste.

It would also require a thorough cleansing of the area to prevent the undead. Well, the aftershocks of the Pillar of Light are still here, so they might not be able to manifest even after slaughter, but I don’t want to wake up with a smelly zombie breaking down my door. I wonder if he thought of this from the beginning or is just taking advantage of the situation.

Damien knew well that despite Leonard's easy-going attitude, he was anything but simple.

“I am Tusk, Berserk of the 104th!” The large man bellowed, bringing his axe to a ready position. He wielded the large weapon with a single hand while the remaining one was free. The almost invisible glow of a skill building up told Damien that the man was not as simple-minded as he appeared, despite having just challenged the Hero.

There was no formal start, but both combatants moved simultaneously. Tusk crossed the distance much more quickly than a man his size should, bringing his axe down in a brutal blow that would have broken any normal sword.

The Hero’s sword, however, didn’t budge. Made of Heavenly Steel harvested from a meteor, Dyeus, the sky blade, could not be defeated, even in the hands of a farmer. Wielded by the Hero, it was a surprise that the axe didn’t shatter on contact.

“If Tusk gets started, he won’t stop until he wins,” Matheus murmured anxiously.

Damien knew the soldier could feel the difference in power between the two fighters. Even Tusk himself had to know he couldn’t compete in raw might, but he probably hoped he could overwhelm the Hero with enough boldness.

Again, Tusk brought down his axe heavily, trying to push his opponent back. When that didn’t happen, he made to go for a third attack and instead shifted his left foot forward, launching a hand strike meant to break the Hero’s nose.

For the first time, Leonard moved.

Tusk’s meaty hand was caught in a deadly grip, and even from where he was, Damien heard the bones break under the pressure. Not letting go, Leonard tugged the Berserk toward him and rewarded him with a brutal kick, which sent Tusk flying away, spinning on the ground, until he came to a stop fifty feet away.

Dust and grass sent flying by the attack settled back down as the Hero marched forward, Dyeus pointed before him.

He reached Tusk just as the man drew the first ragged breath. It was a raspy thing, signifying his ribs had been broken and likely had punctured a lung.

Dyeus came to rest against the man’s neck. “Yield?”

A moment of silence followed as Tusk struggled to understand how he had lost so quickly before he managed to get a word out. “Yield.” He confirmed, and a cheer rose from the defenders.

Damien nodded to himself and turned around. His role as a healer would keep him occupied for the foreseeable future, but before that, he wanted to deliver his recruit to the Temple.

Behind him, Holy magic was used, and he knew Leonard had just healed his opponent. A devious smile stretched over his lips.

We’ll take everything and everyone Haylich can throw at us and make it ours.

Large festivities were never Damien’s favorite thing, but they were something he had to learn to tolerate with his job. While Alpar usually only had relatively small festivals, Mellassoria, the kingdom's capital, had imposing ones that stretched for weeks. Over a million people celebrated Holy Days, and all Temple staff was required to participate, one way or another, as it was the moment most donations could be raked in.

That was true now as well. Alpar might still be a small town, but at the moment it served as the capital of the Revolution, and as such its festivals couldn’t be subdued.

“Legends will be told of this moment for centuries to come. The first victory of this war of liberation belongs to us, and we must ensure everyone knows it.” Damien explained to the five priests he had gathered.

Clean-up operations were finally coming to an end, and all who needed healing had received it, which meant it was time for more work. Where Sir Gareth had taken some men to sweep the Darkwood of fleeing soldiers, and Sir Gerard was given the task of organizing the new troops who had joined their cause after surrendering, Damien needed to ensure the one thing this revolution lacked, cultural support, could begin to be cultivated.

For the moment, everything was held together by the shared belief in the Hero and the knowledge that the Light thought their cause just.

The victory they achieved earlier in the day and the subsequent Blessings received by a few of the defenders had cemented it in the people’s minds. But those alone did not make a new identity for the country.

While Amelia Barks might be unrivaled when it came to subterfuge and subtle magics, Damien knew he was the best at manipulating the people. He was still a vicar by vocation, but his skills didn’t stop at wielding Holy magic. Persuasion, charisma, and many others were in his toolbox, and he would not hesitate to use them for the right cause.

“Do we need to concentrate on retelling specific things?” One of the priests asked.

“Make sure to emphasize that the Hero forgave those who were tricked by the nobles and welcomed them with open arms, but that to those who consciously decided to bring harm to his people, he showed no mercy,” Damien replied. It wasn’t the whole truth, but it was close enough for people to go with it. They all loved the thought they had been chosen. That the Revolution had started because of them.

This would incite that sentiment. It was just one of many threads he was weaving, but one Damien believed was worth investing in.

“Be generous with your healing. You’ll have a few days to recover before your skills will be needed again, and this is a good moment to show our dedication to the cause.”

Even should the main temple not come to reason, Damien would ensure the faith kept a central role in the upcoming administration.

Chapter 19 - Old Roots Can Still Flower - Lia 1

“And then, he asked me to help him clean his armor before anyone saw it. Can you imagine anyone forgetting the Hero’s squire threw up all over himself?” Margaret chattered away at her side. If there was one thing Lia didn’t appreciate in her youngest apprentice, it was her tendency to talk at all times. The girl seemed to have a grudge against the concept of silence and did her best to fill it with words whenever it appeared.

“Then I suppose the arugula and lye disappeared from my stores by themselves, hmmm?” Lia asked with a gimlet eye, earning a sheepish grin. “Bah, I don’t know why you dance around so much. It’s obvious you like each other. We certainly didn’t wait with these things back in my day.”

Margaret made a face at that, just like Lia knew she would. The old hobgoblin cackled, amused as always by her apprentices’ reticence at discussing anything coming close to their master’s love life.

“We don’t like each other. He’s just the only boy my age who can hold his own. All the other ones are too busy chasing each other with sticks, or the few with a functioning head are learning a trade. I don’t want a smelly blacksmith apprentice.” The girl replied, blushing.

Lia rolled her eyes, “And a vomit-soiled squire doesn’t count among that group? Bah, if you want to waste your time, do as you want, but don’t come complaining to me about it.”

“He’s gonna go to war soon! It’s not the right time.” Margaret fretted, finger twirling around a lock of curly hair.

“Foolish girl. Where do you think you’ll be? You might not join him on the battlefield, but you’ll accompany me as we follow the main host.” That revelation was enough to send Margaret sputtering.

By the time they reached the courthouse, where the war council would gather, Lia was relieved to see that her apprentice had gotten herself under control. She didn’t mind teasing her a bit, but she didn’t want to humiliate her before the up-and-comers of the new government.

The two guards standing at the entrance of the building snapped a salute as they got closer. “Madam Minister!”

Lia waved them off, not bothering to waste her breath to explain that she didn’t care for titles. She had made that mistake once and had spent a good half an hour talking in circles until she decided that if the soldiers wanted to think of her as a superior, they could, as long as they didn’t bother her too much.

I knew what I was getting into when I got close to the Hero. He was too much for the king to let him be. Sooner or later, something would have happened. I’m old enough to bear the consequences of my actions.

Lia felt grateful to her old mentor, Madame Ellesmere, for having insisted she become proficient with rejuvenation elixirs. The ancient elf might not have needed them personally, but she knew younger races would pay premiums to relieve the aches that came with age. If she could not brew herself one every month or so, she was sure she’d need to be carried back and forth by a horse or a carriage whenever there was a council.

That would have been the wrong move from a purely optical standpoint. While the new government was still very much considered to be of a higher social level than the average person, the ideological reason behind the Revolution - the liberation of slaves and abolishment of the aristocracy - meant that they had to be careful not to appear too elitist.

Especially at the beginning, it would have painted her as out of touch with the new ideals. Leonard might not have cared since he knew her well enough, but people were rarely as forgiving as him.

Another guard saluted her when she finally reached the meeting room - Eichelbaum’s old study - this one at least strong enough that he could do some protecting, unlike the two newly blessed Journeymen standing outside.

The Grand Marshal was already present inside the room, joined by his Minister of War and the First Sword. The two men, both grown knights, paced worriedly like maidens while their leader watched them with an amused look.

“Have you decided to tease your ministers into an early grave today, Grand Marshal? I should have worn a better skirt if I knew I’d have to dance for your amusement.” Lia croaked, startling the two knights.

Leonard laughed brightly, not taking offense to her words like many others would. That was enough to stop the two from retorting, and they looked down abashedly.

“The two good men here are trying to solve a problem that doesn’t have a simple solution, and they have been talking themselves into circles for the past ten minutes.” He replied, and Lia walked closer, curious to see what had prompted such behavior.

A look at the map and the figurines arranged over it told her what they were so taken with. While their next target was all but decided since Thelma’s Lord Mayor had done them the favor of sending out his most significant asset, away from the protection of the town’s mages and heavy artillery, the following one was not as easy a mark. Lamprey Port was on the coastal road, and taking it would mean the Revolution could control most of the southeastern trade in the region.

The only problem was that it had a Navy base, a Magic Tower, and a significantly stronger garrison. There would be no quick victory in a morning like they had achieved a few days before against the 104th - not with the forces they had at their disposal. At least if the Hero didn’t go all out, and it was not the time for that yet.

“You are putting the cart before the horse,” Lia finally replied. It was a problem, sure, but the assets they’d have by the time they got there would be much different than what they had now. “Already, with just one battle, our numbers have swelled significantly. Taking Thelma will make us a much more dangerous force.”

“She’s right, you know.” An elegant female voice said, and they all turned to see the Mistress of Shadows walk into the room, closely followed by the sneaky vicar Leonard kept around.

“Thelma still has some defenses, but if our plan goes to fruition, we’ll be able to take it without too much waste.” She continued, earning a sigh of agreement from the two knights.

“You are correct, my lady. It’s just that we cannot help but worry, given the numerical disparity we face in our campaign. We have full faith we’ll prevail in the end, but getting there with the least dead is a priority.” Sir Gerard replied, taking his seat, quickly followed by Sir Gareth.

The two men poured themselves some wine from the flagon prepared in advance while everyone sat down. Margaret went to join Oliver at his desk, the chair she usually had to drag over there already in place.

“About that.” Their leader interrupted, looking at Lia, “Have you heard anything from your people?”

She allowed a slow smile to spread on her features and nodded, taking out a couple of letters from her satchel. If someone outside her lineage tried to read them, they’d find nothing more than the average prattle young women would typically send to their old grandmothers, but to her, there was a wealth of information hidden within.

“My two apprentices replied quickly. They used their familiars to get the letter over here without passing through the post, which is still not working, but thought better than to be overt in their message.” Miles and Jessica were not the most brilliant alchemists she had nurtured, but they weren’t stupid by any means. They just had low ambitions, which she could respect. They cultivated their influence within the community without much thought toward what to do with it, but they still eagerly accepted her request for information.

“The situation there is not much different from what it was here under Eichelbaum, though the Lord Mayor is more discreet in his abuses. Two dozen knights and about thirty mages can take the field alongside the town watch, a force made of retired soldiers and bullies the Mayor uses to keep the peace. Considering the size of the local slave market compared to the population, he needs it.” She revealed.

A dark cloud passed over Leonard’s face. Lia had known him long enough to have seen him struggle with his innate disgust for the practice, and it seemed that he had decided not to hide his feelings anymore now that he was in command.

“Tell me more of these knights and mages.” He ordered.

“There shouldn’t be any beyond our means to handle if they take the field and don’t just hide out in their manors. Dandelion De Hoop has been smart enough to reward the people with power if they showed him loyalty and has cultivated an inner circle with significant wealth. My apprentices say it’s mostly coming from the sale of refugees to foreign traders.”

An oppressive feeling came over the room, and everyone stopped breathing for a moment. The sun darkened, and the air grew still.

They were released soon after, as the Hero took a deep breath and got himself under control.

“I apologize,” He said, “I almost lost control. I find it hard to tolerate the mere existence of slavers lately, and it takes all my strength to avoid marching over there as quickly as I can and strangle them all with my hands.”

Lia had no doubt he could actually do it. She wasn’t privy to the true might he wielded, but if her speculation were close to the truth, the man might be able to win the campaign by himself.

Fortunately, he’s smart enough to know that killing a lot of people doesn’t necessarily mean everyone else will start listening to you. Some things have to be forged with the blood and sweat of many before they can be truly changed, and getting rid of an institution like slavery is one of them.

“Have they any information about the firepower left in the town?” Sir Gerard asked, returning the conversation on track with aplomb.

“No specifics, but apparently, there have been a lot of movements between the barracks and the wall - which were famously built by the Silver Wind a century ago. So it’s safe to think that they are beginning to prepare for an attack.” She replied. This was the most important information she had. It meant their time was relatively limited, as the more they allowed Thelma to prepare, the more they’d pay for it.

I know they all want more time to train the troops enough that they stop tripping over each other’s boots, but we need to get there before they are ready for us. Or worse, before reinforcements reach them.

“We need to march before the week’s end.” Leonard finally decided. That meant they had four days to prepare the troops and the supplies necessary to sustain them.

Magic made things easier, as food wouldn’t spoil for a long time, and even basic gruel could be made to taste decently with fresh spices. They were expensive, but it wasn’t like there was a market to sell them to at the moment, and morale was more important.

“Should we take the cannons the 104th brought with them?” Sir Gerard asked. The three weapons had been recovered and mounted over Alpar’s walls. They significantly boosted the town’s defenses, and Lia doubted Leonard would want to deprive them of that in his absence.

“No, we need them to send any pirate that comes sniffing around running back with the tail between their legs. If we need to break Thelma’s walls, I’ll do it myself, but I hope it won’t come to that.” He gave Lia a look. She nodded back.

The last goal of her message was to ask Jessica, her apprentice running a brothel, if the ground was fertile for internal discord. The reply was a resounding yes.

Chapter 20 - Proper Preparation and Other Good Habits - Oliver 1

The best part about being a squire to a Hero, beyond the recognition, was that most of the equipment he should have been taking care of, that most squires slaved over, simply never got damaged or even dirty.

Mithril armor was capable of shrugging off blows from an Expert knight without even getting scuffed, and according to his mentor, it could withstand a fully-trained mage raining fireballs and only have a thin layer of ash.

Still, some things needed to be taken care of. Leather, most of all, and while Leonard Weiss didn’t particularly care for the state of his equipment beyond its functionality, Oliver was no freeloader. He might have begged and pleaded with the man to take him on as an apprentice, but he fully intended to earn his keep.

Now that Belinda wasn’t there anymore to nag Leonard into caring for himself, it fell to Oliver to do so. So, after he ensured everything was working as intended, he left the armory and quickly walked to the courtyard of his teacher’s cottage.

I thought we might move to the courthouse now that Alpar’s under control, but he’s right that we won’t be here long enough to be worth it. We’ll begin marching on Thelma tomorrow, and we probably won’t come back unless we win the war or we are in full retreat, and I doubt that will happen soon.

Oliver knew it was a stereotype for a squire to believe their master was the best, but he felt he had a compelling argument. The Hero was the Hero for a reason.

He found Leonard swinging a massive slab of iron, heavy enough that it would require five men to lift it. No discernible effort was required for him to go through the motions of his sword style, though the air whistling and rushing with his every movement told a different story.

He might be the most powerful man on the continent, and yet he trains like a novice without missing a day. Well, beyond the funeral and the following days, but that’s a different matter.

“Sir! It’s time to attend to the troops’ training!” He said, using a spark of mana to ensure his voice could be heard over the loud swooshing.

Leonard stopped soon after, completing the movement he was going through and putting the unconventional weapon down, causing the ground to shudder faintly. “You are right; I was just going through a few basic movements and got lost in my thoughts,” He replied, pushing his hair away from his eyes.

Where one could generally expect a man, even a powerful one, to be sweating and panting after such an effort, Leonard was as fresh as when they had broken their fast. It was one of many little things that told Oliver he was even greater than the stories said.

He shook his head, pushing his idle speculations away, and offered him a warm towel. Again, mana allowed him to keep the cloth at the right temperature.

He knew he might never become a full mage, but these little uses of magic made his life much easier, and even if he didn’t learn anything else, they were enough to make him genuinely grateful.

The basics had been more difficult than Oliver had ever expected, having been little more than a street rat when he was taken under the Hero’s wing, but with his and Belinda’s tutelage, he had soon begun learning like a sponge.

He knew his mentor felt a terrible rage within at the death of his beloved, and Oliver shared that feeling. The depth of it had shaken him, especially since he believed he had scraped the bottom of anger and despair when fleeing the Void. Having to watch his family break, the very land turn dead behind them, had been hard.

This was different. Instead of the hot, fiery emotion of back then, what he felt now was a dark, slow-moving thing.

He had been aimless in his anger until Leonard revealed his speculations, and from then, Oliver had sworn to himself he wouldn’t rest until Haylich was purged of the corrupt system that had allowed such a thing to happen. There might have been one specific culprit who had orchestrated the whole thing, and they’d make him pay, but the bigger problem was the aristocracy as a whole and their system of subterfuge and absolute arrogance.

As they walked toward the 105th’s training grounds, Oliver cycled his mana through his limbs, allowing the rhythmic effort to lull him back into calm. He pushed the anger into that dark place that he held deep within and mixed it with the spark of divine Light his master had placed inside him the moment he became his official apprentice, allowing the two energies to mingle and become one, as instructed.

One day, he’d wield that power to great effect, but for the moment, he only needed to acclimate to it.

Before they arrived at their destination, the shouts of men exercising and their stink hit them. An area meant for a few hundred had become home to more than a thousand soldiers, which made space a rare commodity. They could have trained outside the walls, but Captain Dortmund had rejected it, saying that the risk of their enemy sending rangers to spy on them and subsequently prepare Thelma’s defenses with a clear idea of the Revolutionary forces was too great.

It felt a bit too paranoid to Oliver, but his teacher approved, and so the order was passed without a peep of protest.

The soldiers, divided into six groups depending on their specific vocation, trained hard. They had access to several dedicated healers, which was considered a luxury usually afforded only to nobles, so they could continue for the whole day and sometimes into the night.

Progress was fast and glaringly obvious. Men who started capable of only wielding a sword in one-on-one duels or had at the most experience fighting monsters now moved like a well-oiled machine as part of a unit. The tanks advanced with their shields in unison, making the ground tremble with the heaviness of their steps. The general soldiers kept their form steady even as they crashed against an equal group. The rangers flitted through the gaps in the opponent’s formation, punishing any mistake and retreating before they could be swarmed. The few knights present led their troops and only exposed themselves when an enemy champion was revealed.

All in all, it was a far cry compared to the battle of Alpar. There, the 105th had been the only force to keep its shape, and even then, it had slowly lost its cohesion as the enemy retreated.

In less than a week of constant grueling training, the minister of War had imposed order on his new troops.

I can kind of see now why Leonard wanted to get him on our side. Sir Gerard is a strong knight, but his greatest talent is how he molds soldiers. Now that he’s been given free rein and doesn’t have to keep to the kingdom’s outdated fight manuals, he’s become an entirely different beast.

Even before his training, Oliver would have been able to pick up on the differences, but after it, he could tell that compared to the force he saw bumbling about the first day, it was like a miracle had been worked.

A glance at his mentor’s satisfied expression told him that his suspicions about the origin of such a miracle were probably correct.

Oh, it wasn’t like the Hero had personally gone and Blessed every man here, but something didn’t fit. There was simply too much progress, even accounting for Sir Gerard and the healers.

“Grand Marshal!” A man shouted after the exercise was over, finally noticing them. The entire training ground screeched to a halt then, as the soldiers hastened to salute their leader.

They drew up into a line without the need for the sergeants to shout at them, and in short order, they were standing at parade rest.

The majority - the members of the 105th and the new arrivals from the 104th - had professional uniforms on, made of alchemically treated leather and steel armor, while the auxiliary units were more of a patchwork. Rangers, in general, were provided with less equipment than the average soldier, as they were much more resourceful. They wore simpler leather clothes, which allowed them a full range of motion rather than any significant protection. The tanks and knights both wore heavier armor.

They are not the professional army I know Leonard wants, but they are getting there. By the time we have taken Thelma and marched on Lamprey Port, we might actually have a capable force that doesn’t rely entirely on buffs.

“Atten-tion!” A sergeant screamed, and the men complied at once.

Leonard answered their salute with one of his own, followed by Oliver. They then proceeded to walk around the lines of men, inspecting their readiness.

It wasn’t effective for gleaning information; watching them fight worked much better. But it wasn’t meant to be. Leonard had explained to him that the men needed to know that the higher-ups recognized their hard work.

While he wouldn’t always be available for a full inspection, the Hero still did his best to get the troops to a good starting point.

When that was over, and the men were dismissed to return to their training, Oliver accompanied his mentor to the command position, where Sir Gerard and Sir Gareth were discussing something.

“I still say it’s better to focus on building up the few gems in the rough. I understand your focus is having a united, capable force and that you need leaders among your men to be able to handle the influx that will come, but developing a few elite units now will allow us to match the forces the kingdom’s army will throw at us once it starts moving in earnest.” The First Sword said.

Oliver still had trouble reconciling the image of the spirited, energetic man before him now with the sad drunk that haunted the slums just a few weeks before.

He knew that people could take a lot more punishment and bounce back at higher tiers. Hells, he had seen his mentor wrestle against an owlbear with just a loincloth without using magic and come out victorious. But the change was stunning. Men who fell into vice and despair usually only had a few months to live if they were lucky enough. Sir Gareth looked like he had never stopped taking care of himself. His dark hair was gracefully braided, and his clear eyes made him look like a knight out of a storybook.

“We can pick out those best suited for specific squads once they have more experience. Taking the few Expert fighters out now will dramatically weaken the force as a whole. They have gotten better, but not enough to allow such a gutting,” The Minister replied sternly.

Seeing that they were at an impasse, they both turned to the one man who could make a decision. Leonard hemmed and hawed a bit, reading through the reports the two men had prepared before pronouncing his sentence, “In the long term, we won’t be able to make do with a generalist army. I won’t be able to be everywhere to boost them at need, and overall, it’s not a sustainable approach, but I agree with Gerard that we cannot break up the force now. We have too few troops. Once they have some experience and are sturdier, we can start forming specialized Corps.”

And with that, the argument was over. The two knights were powerhouses in their own right, both capable commanders. And yet, they didn’t say anything, letting the younger man among the three decide.

Oliver doubted it was just respect for authority. They were too bright to allow mistakes to go unaddressed, which meant they believed Leonard to have some insight they lacked.

That belief wasn’t rare either. He had met innumerable people who went along with anything he said just because he was the Hero’s apprentice.

That kind of power might be scarier than any magic.

Chapter 21 - Patience Of The Hunter - Neer 1

The last of the soldiers that had streamed out of the Darkwood entered the town, and the gates slammed shut with finality.

Neer stopped the expression of disgust that tried to form on her face. The humans around her were annoyingly good at picking up on her mood, and she wasn’t in a position to express her thoughts freely.

It was one of the few things she was grateful to her mother for teaching her. Sure, the woman had done it out of disgust for her orcish features, but it was still useful, and Neer wasn’t one to waste any skill.

She moved back from the window, resuming her guard over the man she hated the most. De Hoop glanced at her and then toward the forest, sighing. “You’ll get to kill a lot of people soon, don’t worry. I’ll sate that bloodthirst of yours for once.”

Neer didn’t react. The man had built a horrific, animalistic image of her in his mind, which was one of the few things that kept him from violating her. He had taken his time to break her mind, or at least he thought he had managed it, but he still kept the high-quality collar on her.

He said it was out of courtesy for his collaborators, as they might experience discomfort working around an unchained half-orc, but Neer knew it was because deep down, he knew his conditioning hadn’t taken root as well as he hoped.

An hour of silence followed as he worked until someone knocked on the study’s door. De Hoop didn’t react, making the people outside remain there for five more minutes before he gave Neer a nod.

She moved languidly, taking her time. It was one of the few pleasures she had, though she knew it was an insidious one. Her master often used her as an instrument to remind his minions of his superiority. While she enjoyed seeing their fruitless anger, she was aware that it was only another way for the disgusting noble to tie her to him.

She opened the solid oak door with deliberate slowness, allowing the minor nobility of Thelma to stream into the room.

Men and women who should have held themselves with dignity clutched their clothes nervously. As always, they avoided looking at her, skirting around to prevent any contact.

From the recesses of her mind, Neer felt the dull instinct to grab a woman who dared come close to her. She could see it in her mind’s eye. It would just take a sliver of her power to break the noble in two, and then she could use the shock of death to grab the closest knight’s sword and begin to butcher them.

Her collar warmed in warning, and she allowed those thoughts to return to whence they came. It wasn’t the time yet, though something told her a window of opportunity was coming. Whether that was to die in battle or to be free, she didn’t know, but she wouldn’t mind either.

“My Lord Mayor, we thank you for receiving us!” The first of the nobles said, bowing his head beyond what protocol dictated.

It was another thing Neer enjoyed watching. Humans based their societies around strict rules and expectations, but the moment things started going wrong, they went back to being as tribal as the orcs they despised so much. The only man with a shred of control in Thelma at the moment was Dandelion De Hoop, and by his grin, he knew it.

The mages entered the room next, and while some would have thought them the immediate successors of the 104th’s Captain as far as wielders of martial might, Neer knew these specific casters weren’t good enough to do much beyond take orders. Some of the apprentices showed minor talent, which could be nurtured into a real danger to the Mayor’s rule with time, but they were all under control for the moment.

The town vicar followed, a stooped old man with long, bushy white eyebrows and a thin beard that reached his midsection. He was another of those people who could have wielded his power for good and instead had fallen under De Hoop’s wing with nary a complaint after he consolidated his hold.

Lastly, the town guard’s Captain, Bertrand, a man Neer knew to be at least mildly capable with the sword he wielded, entered, accompanied by one of the soldiers she had watched escape from the forest.

The man had unkempt, dirty hair. His eyes were shifty as he observed everyone in the room, paying particular attention to her after dismissing most others.

Neer felt herself match his regard. She couldn’t help it, as it was part of her standing orders of guarding her master.

However, the man didn’t do anything beyond give her a wary look once he noticed her collar. He contented himself by sitting at the opposite head of the table where the servants had prepared for a meeting with the merchants, who had been postponed when the first soldier arrived.

The dirty man grabbed a jug of wine and poured himself a glass, showing a surprising amount of disrespect to the assembled nobles, but if what she was feeling was correct, he could have probably killed most of the people in the room before being cut down, if she wasn’t there.

She made a note that he was missing a finger on his left hand, just in case they ever came to blows. He likely had developed a style to compensate for that weakness, but it was the kind of thing that could never be wholly solved.

“Well, what have you to say for yourself?!” One of the knights bellowed, slamming a hand on the table and making the dishes rattle.

The Mayor gave him an annoyed look at the loud noise but didn’t rebuke him. It seemed he was just as curious.

The soldier finished drinking his wine and sighed. “T’was a rout.”

Chaos followed those words, as the truth most had known but tried to ignore was made impossible to avoid.

At her master’s signal, Neer let out a burst of killing intent that immediately silenced the room. It was the kind of skill only experienced fighters had, and she had many years to hone it beyond what even talented users ever achieved. Her enslavement would forever mark her mind, but it had allowed her to cultivate her hatred and fury into a dangerous weapon.

Of course, she didn’t bring to bear her full intent, or several people’s hearts might have given out, and she wanted to keep the true extent of the skill hidden for when she made her escape, whenever that was.

The soldier seemed mostly unaffected by it and resumed talking once everyone had gathered their wits, “We got ambushed soon after entering the Darkwood, but at that point, there wasn’t much we could do. We didn’t have information about the enemy forces, as they kept killing our rangers, but the Captain decided to keep pushing.”

Considering that Alpar should have had a devastated garrison from the Incursion, everyone in Thelma had expected the real fight would be overwhelming the Hero with numbers. It seemed that wasn’t the case if the 104th encountered resistance miles away from their target.

“It took us much longer than expected to get out of the forest, and by then, we had lost fifty people and our three cannons. They broke the wheels beyond repair, and we had no wood mage to fix them.” The man continued, sounding morose.

“I told Vettel it was a stupid idea to bring them, but he insisted he needed them in case the Hero wouldn’t go down,” Bertrand muttered to the Mayor, who nodded with pursed lips.

In hindsight, it was obvious that any force with scouting abilities would prioritize attacking the heavy artillery, especially if it wasn’t well-defended and would be hard to repair. Still, Neer didn’t think the Captain had made a wrong decision. If even half of what she heard of the Hero were true, those cannons would have come in handy.

“Get to the point, man! What happened once you arrived in Alpar?!” The same knight as before growled.

The soldier gave him an annoyed look that made the knight puff up, but continued his tale, “They were waiting for us with a much bigger force than we expected. The 105th was at full muster, instead of the broken force we had expected, and they had at least two hundred others who looked like adventurers, armed to the teeth.”

Well, that’s different from what the rumors said. Merchants usually are accurate when they speak of economic issues, but I guess they are not that good at judging the readiness of a military force. Or someone planned this confrontation for a long time and only allowed false information to trickle out of Alpar…

That thought was enough to send a shiver down Neer’s spine, though she contained her physical reaction. She was confident in handling almost anyone in a direct fight. Only people like the Hero and true powerhouses could best her, and even that might not be true if she was given a few years to train herself without the collar holding her back. But facing a shadowy plotter capable of organizing a war so long in advance? No, Neer knew her limits very well. That was not her battlefield.

At least, she took heart in the fact that this terrifying person seemed to be working against her enslaver. She would probably die in the coming conflict if she were honest with herself, but she wouldn’t go down alone.

“Still, Captain Vettel ordered us to fight, even after the Hero came out personally and called for our surrender. Scary bugger, that one. I saw him lop the head off a sergeant without batting an eye, and in the next moment, he was kneeling next to a soldier with a smile, healing him as if there wasn’t a battle going on.” The man continued.

This time, the reaction was more pronounced. Everyone had known the Hero would be the biggest hurdle to overcome, and it seemed they had feared what could happen should they lose.

A female mage hid her face in her hands, shoulders shaking, while most of the nobles fretted, asking each other what they could do and if they could pool together enough money to hire mercenaries from abroad.

It seemed that everyone already understood that they wouldn’t be able to sit on their asses. Retribution for their attack would come, and considering that from what the soldier explained, Alpar’s defenders had not only maintained their readiness but also expanded their numbers with more than a hundred turncoats, they would soon have an army marching at their doorstep.

De Hoop waited until the room was silent before speaking, “I understand it wasn’t easy leaving your comrades behind, but you did well in bringing this information to us. If you go to my steward, you’ll receive your pay and a bonus.”

The dirty man didn’t need to hear that twice. He barely bothered to bow to the Mayor and didn’t give more than a glance to the others before getting out of the room.

The moment the door closed behind him, chaos erupted once again. Nobles and mages shouted over each other, pretending someone did something while avoiding offering themselves.

Finally, her master gave her a look, and Neer brought her hand down on the table, hard. The enchanted wood held, if barely, but the loud bang was enough to silence everyone.

She settled back into position, satisfied.

“I’m sure everyone has relevant observations to share.” De Hoop said drily. “But at the moment, we have a choice to make. We can draft the citizens with Blessings oriented to physical labor, put a spear in their hands, and try to match the Hero on the battlefield, or we can do the smart thing.”

No one made a peep. Though they were all very curious about what this smart thing might be, they all knew their leader to enjoy theatrics and wouldn’t risk enraging him by depriving him of his moment.

On cue, Bertrand asked, “And what would that be, my lord?”

De Hoop flashed him a genial smile, “We’ll prepare for a long siege while we wait for reinforcement. As soon as we are done here, I’ll send an urgent message to Hassel to mobilize the troops. The Hero might be personally powerful, but he won’t be able to do anything against tens of thousands of soldiers.”

Chapter 22 - Consequences have Actions - Oliver 2

Blood spurted in an arc from the goblin’s neck. It only had time to exhale its last breath in surprise before the force of the blow sent it spinning away, crashing into the underwood.

Oliver kept a wary eye on his surroundings but allowed himself to relax from his stance. The others were just cleaning up the last remains of the tribe that had been foolish enough to assault them, so he had time to walk over the goblin he had just struck down.

It was face up, eyes lost in the abyss as death encroached. Oliver pushed his sword into its skull, ending its life once and for all.

He didn’t particularly enjoy making his kills suffer more than needed. Sir Leonard had told him it was a good thing as long as he could still do what was needed, and he had taken it to heart.

It was a pity that this goblin tribe had been so stupid. He had heard stories that distant nations managed to integrate the buggers somehow, and he had always been curious about what that would look like.

Goblins in Haylich were widely considered pests and, as a rule, slaughtered on the spot. This wasn’t done out of cruelty, as when their tribes became large enough and formed a horde, they could threaten entire duchies, given their prodigious breeding abilities.

The thought of subduing them and integrating them into the army was an intriguing one, and he wondered if he might be able to do something about it. Technically, he had no official role beyond being the Grand Marshal’s squire, but that was enough to offer him political weight.

Light, I’ve changed. If my ma’ heard me right now, she might think a doppelgänger had taken my skin. I used to only talk about swords and fighting, but now I’m considering the political realities of leveraging my position to form a goblin Corp.

How much he had grown under his mentor’s wing in the past months was astonishing.

Oliver had gone from a street rat working as a herb gatherer or gutter cleaner, constantly worrying about bringing enough food home to feed his family after his father died to a voidling, to an honest-to-light squire. He had a sword, armor and mentor!

“Clear!” He yelled after doing a sweep of the area. Luckily, this particular tribe was only made of adults, which marked them as rejects of a larger one.

They’d have to remember the location, as he doubted the humanoids had moved too far from the original group.

If there had been babies, which was always a possibility with goblins, they’d have been forced to end them, and Oliver didn’t think he could have stomached that.

“You did good, kid.” A cheerful voice told him.

Oliver turned around and saw that Jonathan, the sergeant assigned to the squad, was walking toward him, a necklace made of animal teeth and sinew in his hands.

“Catch!”

Oliver was almost forced to let go of his sword, but his training kicked in, and before he even realized it, he grabbed the necklace with his left hand while keeping his sword ready for any attack. His mentor enjoyed distracting him and then punishing that distraction too often for him to react in any other way.

“Hey!” He grumbled, annoyed. Then he brought the necklace closer and peered at it confusedly. “Why did you do that?”

“I thought you might be able to understand what this thing’s for. The leader wore it, but I couldn’t tell what it was doing before I cut it down. As far as I know, you are the only one here with actual magical training.” Jonathan explained.

Sighing, Oliver allowed a spark of mana to flow into his eyes. He couldn’t [Appraise] things, but [Mana Sight], the skill Belinda had spent an entire month teaching him, was enough to get the gist of simple artifacts like the one he was holding.

If it had been any more complex, he would have given up and told the sergeant to wait until they rejoined the main force, but it wasn’t, so he kept his complaints to himself. With his six foot four and cheerful demeanor, Jonathan was one of the few people who treated him normally and not like a prince of some kind.

The soldiers didn’t bow or scrape thankfully, given the nature of the revolution they were fighting for, but they very much made him feel as if he was somehow better than them.

It was uncomfortable for Oliver, so he kept mostly to himself and his mentor. When the opportunity to take part in a sweep had been offered, he jumped to take it, hoping he would at least get some experience.

Blinking back the mana, Oliver returned the necklace, “It’s a poison detector. It warms up when close to poisonous stuff. I have no idea how these goblins could have made it since they had no druids, so they must have stolen it.”

The sergeant hummed thoughtfully and put the artifact in his pouch, “It might come useful, or I might sell it down the line. People generally don’t like obviously tribal stuff, but some adventurers might not care. Here, take this.”

With that, he proffered a small silver coin. Oliver almost choked on his spit at the sight. It was enough money that he could feed his family for two weeks if he were careful with it.

While he was getting paid four of the coins per month as part of his apprenticeship, it was still a lot of money to wave about carelessly.

Jonathan thrust the hand forward, urging him to take it, “Oh, come on. If I had waited to go back to Alpar and went to one of those stuffy mages, they would have made me pay three times as much. I doubt you want to rip me off, but work should be paid. Sir Gerard always makes sure everyone gets their due, even if I’m pretty sure he had to pay us out of pocket in advance lately. This is yours by right.”

There didn’t seem to be a good way to reject him after that, so Oliver accepted the money. He put it in his enchanted pouch, which Belinda had gifted to him two months ago for his birthday, and put the matter out of his thoughts.

Despite the Darkwood not being exactly teeming with dangerous creatures on the outskirts, and even in the deeper parts after the destruction wrought by the Void, it wasn’t a place where one could carelessly wander without paying attention.

Sir Leonard is gonna pull my ears if I get hurt because I got distracted thinking about money. We’ll arrive at Thelma in less than a day, so I need to start mentally preparing for the coming battle.

Oliver prowled forward, the soldiers around him spreading out to prevent anything from attacking all of them at once.

His sensory skills were still far from being deemed good enough by his mentor. Still, the general enhancement he could cast upon himself allowed him to navigate the forest with a grace that usually belonged to rangers.

No further excitement disturbed their patrol save for a grove of treants they avoided and marked on the map, and so they rejoined the main force in short order. There were no grandiose pavilions like one might expect from listening to the stories of the wars past. However, the air around the three commanders of the Revolutionary Force was still heavy with gravitas.

“I’m back!” Oliver announced, earning a brief smile from his mentor.

Lady Amelia joined them then and gave a look at the three men, “Alright, what has got you three so annoyed?”

Oliver somehow managed not to blush, though that might be because he was staring straight ahead. The spirit channeler was jaw-dropping, and he was a growing boy. Though she was intimidating enough that he never saw anyone approach her, everyone considered her the most beautiful woman in Haylich. Since she was Sir Leonard’s close friend, he had the chance to develop a bit of a resistance to her presence, but not enough that he could ignore her entirely.

“Matheus, come over here!” Sir Leonard’s voice rose over the marching of the army, and a man Oliver recognized as the first to surrender from the 104th arrived.

“Grand Marshal! My Lords!” The soldier snapped to attention.

“At ease, Matheus. We were just going over what you told us about Thelma’s remaining forces' composition and comparing it with what we extracted from Captain Vettel.” Sir Leonard replied with a smile that, if anything, seemed to make the man stand even more straight. “Give us another summary.”

“Of course! As far as individual combatants, there are only three left that could pose a significant challenge. I expect one of them, the adventurer Grimbeard, to not participate in the fighting. He’s very independent and doesn’t like the mayor. As long as no significant damage is done to the Guild building, he’s probably gonna stay there. The other two are Bertrand, the Captain of the town guard, a Third Blessing Knight with significant experience in fighting, and Neer, the Mayor’s slave guard. She’s a half-orc and is known to be brutally efficient when she fights. I don’t know her specific blessing, but I believe she is at least an Expert or even a Master.” Matheus relayed stiffly. “As for the others, the mages are the ones to watch out for. I don’t think they have any powerhouses, but I remember hearing rumors that they could cast powerful wards through rituals so that they might do that.”

“Thank you, Matheus. That was all.” Sir Leonard dismissed the man, who snapped another salute and rejoined the army.

Lady Amelia hummed, evidently having understood something that Oliver hadn’t grasped yet. Participating in these meetings always made his head feel like it was overstuffed, but he wouldn’t give it up for the world. They made him feel like he was contributing, and once in a while, Leonard would even ask for his opinion.

When Oliver privately said he felt embarrassed to share his thoughts with so many important people, his mentor calmly explained that he was there precisely because he wasn’t one of them. Having a completely different point of view allowed them all to consider things they would have usually missed.

Most of the time, though, it made Oliver feel quite dumb.

“You are wondering how much they’ll leverage the slave population since they don’t have a chance in hell to face us on the battlefield.” The Lady finally said, revealing what the problem was.

Oliver’s mind briefly struggled before he made the connection. Paradoxically, their crushing victory against the 104th was doing them a disfavor now. If the Lord Mayor of Thelma had believed he could reasonably win the coming battle, he would have likely ordered his forces out of the town, where they could have dismantled them in short order.

However, since they lost so crushingly, they were unlikely to give them a shot at an easy win. Much more likely, they would turtle up behind the walls and force them to besiege Thelma, wasting a lot of time.

A slow smile spread over Lady Amelia’s features, and Oliver was forced to redirect his attention elsewhere lest his blush become incandescent.

“You are lucky I’ve already prepared a solution for this problem.” She said, earning some incredulous looks. Sir Leonard, however, only nodded. Oliver knew that he had unwavering trust in her.

“I imagine you’ll be taking advantage of Lia’s contacts?” The Hero asked, earning a nod.

“Yes, I have arranged for one of her old apprentices to meet me soon. I’ll have to leave briefly if I want to get there without being noticed, but I should be able to complete the work for when you arrive with the army. I’ll send word once I’m done.”

Sir Gerard and Sir Gareth shared an incredulous look, apparently not used to the ridiculous expectations the two members of the Heroic Party had for each other.

Oliver gave the two men a smile of commiseration. They’d get used to it soon enough.

Chapter 23 - Whispers in Corners - Amelia 4

Dawn was a peculiar moment as far as magic went. At least the kind she practiced, which didn’t always match perfectly with the school that Haylich’s mages followed.

The closest person to her brand of casting was little Jean, the genius mage who lived cloistered in her mentor’s high tower and who had contributed almost as much as Leonard to ending the Incursion. Without her, the locals would have never developed a style of casting that could work on the Void, and considering the significantly stronger-than-average Incursion, they would have probably been overrun in short order without Leonard and Jean.

Not that Amelia would have cared. The only reason she was putting so much effort into this shithole of a country was that Leonard was dead set on bringing it kicking and screaming into the light, and she had long decided she would do her best to make his desires come true. Even if that meant shifting between shadows to infiltrate a tiny town at the rear end of nowhere.

Emerging from the darkness of an alleyway, Amelia scanned the surroundings. As her spirit said, no one was around yet. The people of Thelma had reacted like ostriches to the lockdown. Their hope that the storm would pass without damaging their lives was foolish, but then again, they didn’t know better.

Satisfied she wasn’t about to blow the operation on a rookie mistake, Amelia settled to wait for her contact, ensuring to keep [Unseen Presence] active at all times.

She only had to wait five minutes before a figure appeared at the other end of the alley, smoothly moving in the sparse light.

Her heightened senses pierced through the darkness and unerringly tracked the woman’s movements. Her contact possessed generous curves, luminous red hair, and attractive features, if not particularly refined. Her ears were slightly pointed, hinting at a distant non-human ancestor.

She knew the woman to be Lia’s old apprentice, Jessica. The blasted hobgoblin had smirked when she asked for specifics, but Amelia didn’t need much snooping to find out her occupation.

Jessica was the matron of the Sparkling Ruby, a successful brothel close to the noble district of Thelma.

Amelia allowed her skill to fade, letting the woman spot her lingering in the shadows. They greeted each other with a subtle nod before silently moving through the maze-like streets of Thelma toward the Sparkling Ruby. The brothel, nestled discreetly on a narrow side street, exuded a charm that belied its purpose. Its facade was painted a deep, rich burgundy, with delicate gold trim around the windows and door. The sign above the entrance, featuring an elegantly scripted name with a ruby motif, swung gently in the early morning breeze.

As they entered, the interior revealed an atmosphere of subdued opulence. Thick, plush carpets muffled their footsteps, and the air was perfumed with a blend of exotic spices and floral scents. The main hall was adorned with plush velvet curtains, ornate chandeliers that cast a soft, warm glow, and tasteful artwork that added an air of sophistication.

Jessica led Amelia past the main receiving area, which was quiet at this early hour, into a more private room designed for discreet meetings. It was comfortably furnished with a large, cushioned settee, a low table set with an elegant tea service, and walls lined with shelves filled with books and curiosities.

Once settled, Jessica poured tea for both of them, her movements practiced and graceful. The steam from the cups mingled with the dim light, creating a serene ambiance. Jessica’s demeanor was calm, but her eyes held a sharpness that spoke of a keen mind used to navigating the complexities of her trade and the intricacies of Thelma’s social strata.

“You must be Lady Amelia then,” Jessica finally said, “Lia told me you were beautiful, but I didn’t understand how true those words were. You’d make a fortune.”

Amelia blinked before allowing an amused smile to spread on her lips. Usually, people were either too intimidated by her history to talk to her, or so taken by her charm that they ended up making fools of themselves.

It was surprisingly refreshing to be told she’d make a fine whore.

Trusting in her constitution to handle any poison that could have been placed in the tea, Amelia took a sip and was happy to find that not only was it not deadly, but it was perfectly pleasant. It had a fresh floral peach aroma, the mark of a locally produced brew.

Once she was done savoring the first sip, she answered, “I am. I currently serve as the Minister of Intelligence for the Revolutionary Government and have been sent here to prepare the ground for the army's arrival.”

Jessica should have known that much, but like most prostitutes, it was hard to tell exactly where her respectful demeanor stopped being faked and began being real.

“It was about time something happened. Things here in the south have been allowed to fall apart for too long. To be honest, if the Hero didn’t rise up, I’d have given it another year before a sufficiently charismatic adventurer got together enough people to rebel. It just wasn’t sustainable.” The redhead commented, earning an approving nod from Amelia.

While she wouldn’t say most people in Alpar were stupid, they were definitely not interested in politics. And while Leonard could hold such a discussion, he always concentrated on finding solutions. Having someone to share her observations with would be nice, so she made a note to visit the woman occasionally to get a fresh perspective on things. Amelia was aware enough to know she was a bit self-absorbed, after all.

“That’s right. Even had we not been the ones to rise, someone would have. But since we are, it’s my job to ensure things go as smoothly as possible.” Amelia replied.

Jessica hummed, taking a delicate sip of tea, “Which I suppose means you are here to eliminate those who stand a chance in opposing you, right?”

“It’s good that you are quick on the uptake. I will eliminate anyone who poses a danger to the revolution and, if possible, guide the locals in rising up themselves.” Amelia explained.

Jessica nodded, her expression serious as she set down her tea cup. "The people here are mostly downtrodden and have lost much hope. Stirring them to action will be challenging," she admitted.

Amelia leaned forward slightly, her voice firm. "It doesn't really matter whether they participate actively or not. The mere presence of the Hero guarantees our victory. However, having the slaves rise up would certainly make things easier for everyone involved - and better for them in the long run.”

Understanding flickered in Jessica's eyes, a sharp intelligence that spoke of her ability to see opportunity even in the direst circumstances. “You are giving us an opportunity," she responded, her tone shifting to one of resolve. "An opportunity for those here to earn favor with the Revolution. To shape what comes next despite the minor role we will play in the future.”

Amelia nodded, pleased with Jessica's quick grasp of the situation and her willingness to act. "Now, tell me about the obstacles we face here," she prompted, eager to get down to specifics.

Jessica leaned back, her fingers tapping lightly on the table as she organized her thoughts. “I’m sure you are already aware of the few decent fighters we have, so I won’t bore you. As far as our chances to direct a slave uprising, the most significant threat comes from the head priest and two mages," she began, her voice lowering despite the privacy of the room. "They are the local slave market’s bosses. While their death won't immediately release the slaves, it will certainly destabilize the control the masters have, making it easier to break those collars later.”

Amelia absorbed this information. She could solve the problem by herself. But she was curious to see what Lia’s old apprentice would come up with. "Their death?”

"It's feasible but tricky," Jessica replied, her expression turning calculating. "They are well-guarded and mostly move within the upper echelons of society here. However, they frequent this establishment to partake in my girls, making them easily accessible at their most vulnerable. Of course, this would mean my death should your army fail to take Thelma.”

Amelia wasn’t surprised at the revelation. She had seen priests do much worse things than get their jollies off. What she was interested in was how high Jessica’s price would be. And if she was smart enough to understand, she couldn’t haggle with her like she would with anyone else.

Jessica met Amelia's assessing gaze squarely. "If I'm to risk everything," she said slowly, her voice steady despite the risk involved, "I need assurances. Assurances that my girls will be taken care of, that they will have a future in this new world you're building.”

Amelia nodded thoughtfully, appreciating her forthrightness and protective instincts. "Your cooperation in this matter is appreciated, and I respect the stakes for you and your establishment," Amelia replied. "You have my word that your girls will be given an opportunity to start anew with the full support of the revolutionary government. They will be free from exploitation and will receive education and training to help them integrate into whatever new paths they choose to pursue. Or, if they want to continue in this line of work, they will be allowed to do so unmolested.”

It was something she had discussed with Leonard. In one of the increasingly rare moments of downtime, she had asked what he wanted to do with the seedier professions once they established control over the region.

Leonard was an idealist but not a foolish one. He, of course, wanted to put a stop to crime, but he knew that to succeed, there needed to be much better economic conditions for the lower classes. And that some single women without a family would always choose the oldest profession in the world to fall back on.

Jessica considered Amelia's promise, searching her face for any sign of duplicity. Finding none - Amelia’s assurance carried the weight of her position, and the disparity of power made deceit unproductive - Jessica let out a slow breath, and her decision was made. "Then we have an agreement," she said, extending her hand across the table.

Amelia took it, her grip firm. "We do. Now, let's discuss the specifics of how we can eliminate our three problems. It would be better if they disappeared quietly. I could kill them in their residence, but that would raise the alarm that we have infiltrated the town.”

Jessica nodded, releasing Amelia's hand and sitting back to strategize. “If nothing changes - and I doubt it will, as even with the lockdown, they kept their habits - they’ll be here this evening, as usual. My girls are discreet and can slip something into their drinks without being noticed. We’ll take out the guards and put them in a sealed room until the siege is broken.”

Amelia listened intently, her mind already running through various scenarios and contingencies. "I'll be here as well, in the shadows," she added. "Should anything go awry, I'll intervene. But your plan sounds solid, and with the element of surprise on our side, success is highly likely.”

Jessica's lips thinned in a determined line. "After tonight, the power dynamics in Thelma will shift significantly. The nobles will be vulnerable and more willing to abuse their power openly to try and keep things from escalating, especially when they realize their hold over the slave population has weakened.”

"That's the opening we'll need to incite the larger rebellion and secure the town," Amelia concluded. “I’ll take care of the rest.”

She had already completed the scouting of the town, and her summons had marked those few slaves whose will hadn’t been broken and who were powerful enough to motivate their fellows. Amelia doubted it would take much once they realized their chains weren’t there anymore. People yearned for freedom, and she’d gladly ensure they received it. She just had to impress upon them who exactly had granted them that privilege.

Chapter 24 - Theatrics and What They Beget - Leonard 11

The morning fog was beginning to lighten, but it would be a while before the sun chased it away completely. Leonard took a last sip of his cooling tea before turning to the tree beside his tent, where he sensed one of Amelia’s get.

One of the more elusive spirits emerged from behind the tree. It was a round, jolly-looking humanoid, its chubby head swiveling to ensure no one but the intended recipient of the message was present.

Leonard allowed it the time. It was still too early to rouse the men, and if something had gone wrong, Amelia would have sent a different summon. Or razed the town to the ground.

“Lightbringer, this one brings the words of its mistress!” The spirit declared. Leonard acknowledged the message, gesturing for it to continue.

“This one’s mistress assures you that everything has gone according to plan. She plotted and executed the death of three humans and organized the slaves. The mistress says it took a demonstration of power for the humans to accept her rule. Once they were suitably awed by the mistress, they fell to their knees in awe!” The spirit relayed proudly.

Leonard was always amused by how differently the creatures saw the world. For them, the only things of importance were their summoner and themselves. If there were beings of significant power nearby like he was in this case, they showed due respect but cared for nothing else beyond their task. His old earth only had humans, but Leonard liked to imagine the spirits were likely the closest things to an alien intelligence around.

“Very well. Thank your mistress for her hard work. With this, taking Thelma is all but assured,” He said, humoring the creature, which again puffed up. It disappeared quickly, jumping into a nearby shadow as soon as the tent flapped open, revealing Gerard.

“Grand Marshal!” The man greeted, and Leonard sighed. He didn’t particularly like the formality, but he had consented that while they were on the campaign, it was better to respect the ranks. It wouldn’t do for the common soldier to think they could call the shots, after all.

“General, good morning. I have good news.” Leonard quickly relayed Amelia’s accomplishment, and his minister grunted in satisfaction.

“We should be able to keep up with the schedule then. Are we still set to attack today?” Gerard asked.

“We are. The night guard reported everything looks calm on the walls, and our forces are well rested. We should be ready to come out of the forest within the hour, but I’ll leave the fine-tuning to you. Send someone to call me when everything’s ready.” Leonard ordered and left.

While I don’t like overly deferential people, I enjoy having competent subordinates I can trust to handle simple tasks. If I had to micromanage every aspect of this war, I’d go insane. No, it is much better to concentrate on the important things.

Things like ensuring the burgeoning elite division was off to a good start and not simply a waste of resources.

Walking through the waking camp, Leonard allowed the light to cloak his presence. His soldiers had learned not to stop working just because he was passing by, but he would still disrupt the preparations if noticed.

In short order, he reached the end of the camp. There, a simple ward had been raised to prevent sound from escaping the clearing the man in command of the “Special Units” had commandeered.

Given the skepticism Gareth had faced after bringing his idea forward, Leonard wasn’t surprised the man was keeping his proteges away from prying eyes. He wanted to make an excellent first show, which wouldn’t happen anytime soon if what he was sensing was true.

A series of teenagers, both male and female, were in various stages of exhaustion. Some were on all fours, panting desperately, while others still stood, trying to gather together to face the demon that had been chasing them for the whole night.

Gareth looked as fresh as a rose. He advanced on his students with a wooden sword in hand, but given the flinches the kids made when they laid eyes on it, it wasn’t much of a kindness.

Still, he dutifully stopped when Leonard allowed his concealment to drop.

“Grand Marshal!” The man saluted. It took a few seconds before the teenagers realized what had happened, but they soon scrambled up in position, giving their own greetings.

Their enthusiasm was completely genuine, too, as they likely saw him as a savior for granting them a reprieve.

“Sir Gareth, we are about to leave for Thelma, so make your preparations,” Leonard said.

The knight grinned back, “Then the infiltration was successful?”

“Of course,” Leonard replied.

With that, he turned to why he had come all the way over here rather than send a runner. “Let’s go,” He told his squire, one of the few people not to be soaking with sweat.

Considering that he had granted Gareth’s little project a chest full of potions, Leonard didn’t doubt that the teenagers would soon be in fighting form.

Abuse of stamina potions was not to be taken lightly, but Gareth was a skilled fighter who knew how much he could push his charges.

“We’re attacking then?” Oliver asked him once he had said his goodbyes.

As the squire of the highest-ranking person, he wouldn’t fight next to his training companions, which meant this could be the last time they saw each other.

That wasn’t likely to happen. Thelma wasn’t a fortress protected by countless wards. It didn’t have a paladin order to defend it. Its mages were neutered, and the garrison had already been taken care of. But that didn’t mean accidents couldn’t happen.

Leonard had drilled into his student that while he would do his absolute best to achieve victory with the least amount of losses possible, some were still inevitable.

A stray arrow could pierce a knight’s defenses if they didn’t have a skill active. Even more likely, a cannon shot could land nearby, and even a tank would have trouble surviving.

War was not a clean business. Leonard wanted to win but also had to ensure his people earned that victory. That the beliefs he was fighting for would enter the public consciousness as something they earned for themselves and not something imposed from above.

“Gerard is completing the preparations. We’ll march as soon as the men are ready, and I will cast [Halo of the Righteous].” Leonard finally answered.

Oliver nodded, knowing it would mean another speech. It wasn’t that Leonard enjoyed hearing himself talk, but wide area spells, specifically higher tier ones, had stringent requirements to be used. Sure, he could circumvent them with more power, but there was no need to be so wasteful.

Leonard had gotten in the habit, during the campaign against the Void, of keeping two-thirds of his mana ready to be unleashed at all times. It had saved his hide more than once when a powerful enemy appeared unexpectedly, and he wouldn’t break it if it weren’t necessary.

And taking Thelma is not a good enough reason. I’m sure I’ll have to become more involved once we start fighting against more professional forces, but a simple Fourth Tier spell will have to do for now.

However much Leonard might like to think the righteousness of his cause would be enough to see him win, he knew that power had a way of making the victor look correct.

When Haylich’s champions started taking the field, when the great weapons he knew the kingdom could call upon started being used, he’d be ready.

But if he used more of his power now, he’d rob his men of the chance of growing stronger in a relatively safe environment. Which they would need if things went according to plan.

Half an hour later, which Leonard had used to don his armor and give Oliver a few more specific instructions, a runner came to find him.

“Sir! The general sent me to find you, sir! The men are ready and waiting for your orders, sir!” The young man relayed, looking to be quivering with excitement.

Leonard smiled. It was time.

He crossed the camp swiftly and reached the main army, which was standing in neat lines half a mile away from the end of the Darkwood. There, the forest was thin, and the hiding spots were few. Even simple Journeymen rangers would have been able to notice them from the walls, which meant the defenders would know exactly when the attack would come.

Not that Leonard intended for the assault to be a traditional one, but it was best to give them the impression that they knew what to expect.

More than a thousand men and women stood at attention, waiting for him. Leonard slowed his gait and allowed his gaze to grow heavier, letting every soldier feel his presence.

The majority of the men were from the two Corps he had absorbed, which meant they were mostly humans, but some hobgoblins could be seen around the formations on the sides. Those groups made of ex-adventurers often worked as auxiliary troops in training. More rare were orcs, and only two elves were present. They came from the freed slaves and were among the few with fighting-related Blessings. They were also the most bloodthirsty of the soldiers.

Leonard hoped that with time, the Revolutionary army would absorb more races of people, becoming a true example of union and harmony. It would serve as the first building block of the new society that would rise from Haylich’s ashes. But that was a thought best reserved for the future.

Finally, he reached his commanders. The two Generals, Gerard and Gareth, waited for him, dressed in resplendent armor. They cut intimidating figures and served well as the leaders of the force, working as a team to unify the soldiers into one.

They, too, would need to grow if they wanted to keep being useful, and Leonard had ensured they knew of his expectations. He’d always reserve a place for them, but he knew they wouldn’t be content with being relegated to counselors.

He greeted them with a short nod, which they responded to with a salute, and took his place before them. Leonard watched his soldiers, allowing a brief moment of eye contact with all of them.

They waited for him in silence. Their discipline might not have been as that of the vaunted First twenty-three Corps who guarded Mellessoria, but it was much better than they had started with.

“Today is a day that historians will remember for a long time,” He began, his voice enhanced to reach even those who stood furthest. “They will debate whether our defense of Alpar or our actions today will be the start of Haylich's future. They will try to understand the motivations that brought us here.”

The men stood straight, focused on him, even as he started calling upon the Light to cast his spell. They could all tell something was happening, and Leonard took advantage of that, punctuating his words with the rise and fall of his power.

“They will see the death we’ll bring to Thelma’s masters. They will see the Revolution expanding its territory. But there is something they will never understand.”

By now, it was apparent to all that magic was being cast. Holy Light began coalescing around Leonard and every soldier before him, if in a lesser manner. Their limbs became stronger, their footing surer, and their minds clearer.

“They will never feel the beating of your hearts. They will never taste the sweet flavor of victory. They won’t see the light return to the hundreds, to the thousands of slaves that are being kept in chains behind those walls!”

The spell reached its apex. The soldiers' eyes were fixed upon Leonard.

“Today, we’ll take Thelma. Today, we’ll win.” Dyeus, the sky blade, was lifted high.

A roar shook the Darkwood, and Thelma’s defenders knew fear.

Chapter 25 - The Rat Can Hide, But the Cat Has Its Ways - Leonard 12

Thump. Thump.

The Revolutionary Army marched forth.

They cleared the Darkwood and emerged into the open plain that led to Thelma’s walls. Steadily, rhythmically, they kept moving forward. They were an unstoppable wave.

There was a surety in their movements, a fluidity, that they had lacked even in the best training conditions.

Some of it, Leonard knew, was because of him. [Halo of the Righteous] was a mighty spell, considered to be Master tier only because it was generally used on oneself, which was what most Paladins capable of casting it did. In his hands, it had quickly reached the Champion tier.

The paladins of the Whiteguard would have a conniption if they knew he had cast their trump card on more than a thousand people, most of whom were lowborn and barely had a few weeks of training.

But it wasn’t the only reason. The power of his words had been enhanced by magic, but Leonard could feel in his men’s hearts that they, too, believed that their cause was just.

The men marched with confidence because they knew they were fighting for a better future. That winning would tangibly improve their lives.

They reached Thelma’s walls in short order and stopped just outside archery range. Not enough that a Master couldn’t hit them, but sufficient for the rabble De Hoop had gathered to defend himself.

Speaking of the man, Leonard could sense him lurking behind the battlements, likely waiting for word to come about how things were developing.

Well, that won’t do. I need him here to clarify further what we are fighting against. Slavery is an odious thing, but these people are used to it. Having a sneering, pompous noble shout at them will enflame their spirits.

“People of Thelma!” Leonard roared, enhancing his voice magically so that everyone, even those hiding in the cellars, would hear him. His presence bore down on the entire town like a heavy cloak. “My name is Leonard Weiss, and you know me as the Hero! I have come today to free you from the yoke of tyranny! Your Mayor, Dandelion De Hoop, ordered the 104th Army Corp to march on Alpar and slaughter its citizens. Knowing the order's folly, the good soldiers laid down their weapons and joined hands with us! I ask you to do the same! Surrender, and we’ll embrace you like brothers. We’ll free you from your chains! For justice! For freedom!”

A roar of approval rumbled from his men. They stamped their feet, beat their chest, and yelled their agreement with such enthusiasm that there could be no misunderstanding as to what they believed.

As he expected, it didn’t take much for the Mayor to come huffing and puffing. He was smart enough to have brought his slave guard and a mage, an elderly Expert who must have been capable of casting [Protection from Projectiles].

De Hoop gestured angrily at the old man to do something, which took an entire minute to complete. Finally, Leonard saw a simple voice enhancement spell snap into place.

That is little more than a cantrip. Has Amelia exterminated anyone capable of decent casting? No, it’s more likely that this elder just enjoys taking his time and humiliating the mayor. He probably knows already that his stronger colleagues are gone, so it wouldn’t surprise me if he tried to show us he’s on our side…

“You lying cur!” De Hoop’s reedy voice finally came through. The man wore luxurious clothes made from fine wool and light cotton threaded with silver, likely worth enough to feed a family for a year. On his head sat a felted hat with a single purple feather sticking out, as was the trend in southern countries.

Considering his short stature and red complexion, he didn’t cut the sight of a powerful naval commander he no doubt aimed for.

De Hoop kept rambling, his face contorted with fear and defiance as he addressed Leonard from the relative safety of the walls. "You bring war to our doorstep and call it freedom! You’re sacrificing the lives of everyone following you because of your self-righteous morals from another world and your greed for power. No matter which it is, you’ll regret it!”

Standing firmly with his forces arrayed behind him, Leonard lifted his chin slightly, his gaze unwavering as he met the Mayor's accusations with a calm, authoritative tone. "Freedom is worth fighting for, Mayor De Hoop. Even if it means the end of every one of us. Every man and woman who marched with me is ready to die for the cause. And that is exactly why we will win.”

Around him, the soldiers shouted their assent, their commitment palpable in the air, in contrast to the tense apprehension that seemed to emanate from Thelma’s walls. The uneven mixture of the town guard, the few local knights, and the mayor’s rabble-rousers didn’t seem confident in their chances.

De Hoop's eyes flickered with uncertainty, his confidence shaken by the resolve of the assembled army. He turned to the elderly mage beside him, his voice a sharp whisper, though the distance made his words indistinct. After a brief exchange, he faced Leonard again, his expression hardening into spiteful resolve. "Very well, Hero," he spat the title like a curse. "We shall see what you can do, blocked outside Thelma when the Royal Army comes tearing down the Darkwood. Raise the wards!”

The elderly mage took out a large crystal with trembling hands - unknown whether from age or the gravity of the situation - and began to chant, his voice a low murmur that crescendoed into a commanding shout. A shimmering barrier started to form, visible only by the way the air seemed to distort, a wave of silver energy that climbed high above the walls, sealing the city with a protective dome within a few seconds.

As the wards rose, sealing off Thelma from the outside world, Leonard turned to address his troops, unfazed, rallying their spirits. "Look around you, brave souls!" he proclaimed, gesturing towards the walls and the magical barrier that now crowned them. "They build walls not to keep us out but to hide from the change we bring! They shield themselves from the truth of their corruption and the strength of our cause!”

His words stirred a renewed vigor among the ranks who had fallen silent at the display of magic, a chorus of agreement rising from the soldiers, their armor clanking and weapons raised in solidarity.

"We do not fear their barriers, for our cause will break down anything that stands before us," Leonard continued, his tone imbued with a touch of mana to ensure the men didn’t lose their nerve, "We fight not just for Alpar, not just for Thelma, but for the very soul of our land. Stand with me, stand for freedom, and together, we will make these tyrants answer for their oppression!”

It was the most Leonard could say that would still have an effect. Oh, when he first arrived in Haylich, he tried to teach the locals modern values, but they simply lacked the cultural basis to understand what he meant.

That wasn’t to say they were stupid. Most commoners were at least minimally literate, thanks to the hard work of the Temples, and the invisible presence of the System ensured everyone’s mind didn’t dull with disuse. It made for a very different population compared to the pre-modern ones of his original world.

Which meant that they could be taught. Leonard just needed to lay the basis for them, and his people would do the rest. At least, he hoped so. Otherwise, he might be forced to be more direct.

As his rousing speech echoed across the battlefield, a sudden, piercing scream erupted from within the walls of Thelma, slicing through the momentary stillness that had fallen over the armies. This scream was quickly followed by more - chaotic, desperate cries that cascaded over the ramparts and spilled into the ears of those assembled outside.

The men on the walls looked at each other in confusion. Technically, they had achieved their goals. The ward had been lifted, though Leonard questioned how they could believe such a feeble protection could hold him for long, and with the Mayor’s declaration, all knew reinforcements would arrive in time.

Sieges were dangerous, but they weren’t the end of the world. This should have been a moment of watchful relaxation.

Instead, chaos erupted from the inside. The very lack of care for the lowest people that had brought Leonard here was what would lead to the fall of Thelma.

The effect was immediate. After barking orders to try and bring sense to what was happening, the mayor's face, previously masked with a veneer of smug assurance, drained of color, his eyes widening in shock as the reality of the internal rebellion began to dawn on him. The once cocky demeanor melted away, replaced by a trembling fear as the sounds of uprising came ever closer.

Watchmen and knights scrambled to the stairs, knowing that if they allowed the slaves to take them, they’d be penned in and slaughtered one after the other.

The old mage dropped the crystal, which clattered loudly against the stone. Without a backward glance at his nominal liege, he turned and shuffled away at a surprising speed, disappearing from view, his robes billowing behind him.

The only person who seemed to maintain her calm was the mayor’s slave guard. Leonard had read enough reports about her to know she was supposedly the best fighter left in the town, so he could understand why she wasn’t worried. A single Expert could easily handle hundreds of Apprentices and at least a dozen Journeyman tier slaves. It would honestly be a bloodbath. But something told Leonard that the reason the half-orc was so calm wasn’t that.

Inside Thelma, the atmosphere had explosively shifted. The previously subdued and controlled environment was now a hotbed of chaos. Slaves, spurred into action by Amelia’s covert preparations and their own pent-up frustrations, had seized the moment. Their rebellion, fueled by years of oppression and sparked by the promise of Leonard’s revolution, materialized seemingly out of nowhere, overthrowing what few guards remained away from the walls and seizing control of key points within the city.

It wouldn’t take a genius to understand that the local powerhouses had been murdered and that the town had been infiltrated by a mage powerful enough to remove the slave collars. But considering the chaos gripping the defenders’ ranks, that conclusion wouldn’t arrive soon.

Back outside, Leonard watched the unfolding drama with grim satisfaction. His face was set in determination, and he stepped forward, his soldiers rallying around him, their faces alight with the fire of revolution. They, too, could hear the cries of rebellion, the sound acting as a potent reminder of why they fought.

Raising his sword high, Leonard channeled a flicker of his power, focusing on the shimmering barrier that stood between him and the city. The sky blade greedily absorbed the Light he fed it, becoming a radiant beacon. Men screamed joyfully at the sight and prepared to charge despite the wards still being active.

With a mighty shout, Leonard brought Dyeus down in a blinding arc of light.

The ancient wards, already destabilized by the mage’s abrupt departure, shattered under the force of Leonard’s strike. Designed to hold against local pirates for a few weeks, they could do nothing against the concentrated power of the sky blade.

A shower of translucent, intangible crystals rained down upon Thelma. The blow had been so devastating that the wards couldn’t even activate their contingency, especially with no one to direct them. Usually, the explosion that followed their destruction would be enough to discourage most from making the attempt, but Leonard had obliterated the magic so deeply that the protections fell with a whimper.

The Revolutionary Army roared at the sight. Without needing to be directed, every soldier started running toward Thelma, fully intending to scale the walls if needed.

Before the first could attempt to, the main gatehouse was abruptly pushed open, a familiar figure welcoming them.

“Take the town!” Amelia ordered, and the men obeyed, bellowing their excitement as they streamed in unopposed.

Chapter 26 - Tolls and Bells - Oliver 3

Thelma’s walls were not the impregnable ones of the Death Fort that guarded the Silent Corridor in Garva. They weren’t even Hassel’s mighty defenses that had stood against the tides of void for an entire year. But they were still stout walls.

Even with a skeleton crew, taking them would have been a bloody affair for the Revolutionary Army. Many soldiers had crossed into Journeyman tier, making them a reasonably powerful force, but they still would have died in droves assailing such a perfect defensive position.

Lady Amelia opening the town gates saved more lives than any single action that day, apart perhaps from Leonard destroying the wards.

But then again, we wouldn’t have charged if the wards were still working. Everyone knows that’s a quick way to join the Light.

Oliver slashed again, his sword parting a man from his right arm with the same ease he had killed a goblin. Before his opponent could do more than shout, his head was pierced by the following thrust.

He left the corpse behind without looking back, finding the next enemy to fight. The town guard desperately tried to stem the tide of soldiers pouring in from the gates, but it was futile.

A few mages had tried to put up a stronger resistance, casting [Fireballs] at the wall with the intent to collapse them and close the entrance, but the spells had fizzled out halfway to their target. Their second attempt was punished quickly, and the casters disappeared into a wave of shadow. Not even their clothes were left behind, making Oliver believe Lady Amelia might have simply overwhelmed them and transported them elsewhere.

Mages were an important resource, after all. Sir Leonard had declared that, if possible, they should be captured to be added to their forces, and if there was someone fastidious about following his orders, it was Lady Amelia.

Oliver moved through one of the empty side streets, keeping an eye on the mayor’s tower, which he could see standing out of the skyline. That was where he’d need to go to join Sir Leonard, but he first wanted to get some achievements of his own. Slipping away in the chaos hadn’t been his best idea, but he was committed now.

Thelma was similar in architecture to Alpar in that it was mostly cobbled stone and timber from the Darkwood. Differently from it, however, its streets were wider, as if to accommodate a larger population, and cleaner. Even now, with all the chaos of soldiers streaming in, the town had a sense of order much different than the messy slums of Alpar.

I wonder if that’s why they never accepted any refugees here. But then again, Alpar could have handled them much better with some quick action, according to Sir Leonard. The nobles just didn’t want to.

Once he turned a corner, he finally found people. A taller man decked in tabard and threateningly wielding a spear stepped away from the bleeding body of a slave and into his path, and Oliver left such considerations for later. Behind the man, he could see two more men bleeding out, weakly calling for help.

So there are some good fighters left. Well, Thelma is bigger than Alpar, so it was bound to happen.

Oliver brought his sword forward, taking up a stance. His opponent understood his intent and stepped away from the fallen slaves, mirroring him.

He held his spear firmly. Despite the weapon being made of stonewood, given its distinct pale color, and therefore quite heavy, he seemed to have no trouble wielding it.

He must be at least a Journeyman to have this much physical strength. No Apprentice could wield such a spear.

Oliver himself was at the top of the second tier, though he knew that size and experience could still prove a significant advantage to someone weaker than him.

He could feel the Light pooling inside him, observing his actions and waiting for the right moment. His third blessing could come with this victory if he were lucky, but Oliver restrained his enthusiasm. That, Leonard had taught him, was a quick way to lose his head.

His right arm shot forward, probing the man’s defenses. The white shaft met his sword, and he was forced to retreat lest he get caught in the following thrust.

He eyed the man warily and was satisfied that he was given the same regard. Oliver knew his blows were much heavier than anyone would expect from just looking at him. He had practiced for hundreds of hours on single attacks, mastering them until he was capable of executing them in his sleep.

Being under the Hero’s tutelage had allowed what little talent he might have had to bloom into something truly frightening, and Oliver took to it with glee.

Again, he brought his sword forward, and the man shifted slightly, moving to block the blow and to punish it. That was what he was looking for, however, and as soon as the spear shifted to the side, he pumped mana into his arm, granting it incredible strength.

[Pierce] was a basic skill that still gave great results in close combat, and Oliver delivered a textbook example.

It was ironic that, at the same time, his opponent was preparing to use the same skill on him but was too slow.

The leather jerkin beneath the man’s tabard proved too weak to defend him. It had likely been treated with alchemy to make it tougher than mundane protections, but it could do nothing when faced with a silverite sword.

Oliver pulled back his sword, allowing blood to gush out of the hole he had carved in the man’s chest.

I still don’t know his name.

The thought felt almost alien. What did he care about his enemy’s name? Especially one that wouldn’t have shown him any mercy? And yet, it felt wrong to move on without learning it.

“What’s your name?” The question left his lips before he could realize it.

“Ulf.” Came the wheeze.

Ulf. Ulf. Ulf. I won’t forget that anytime soon.

Oliver gave the men the mercy of a quick death and was surprised at how much it felt like killing a goblin.

That done and pushing his bubbling emotions down for later perusal, he left the dying enemy behind, quickly reaching the two bleeding slaves.

Without bothering to explain what he was doing, he took a vial from his pouch and poured a couple of drops over their wounds, watching them close in real-time. They were too far gone for his meager healing skills to be of use, and he could already see the effects of losing so much blood setting in. The two would have died within a few minutes had he not intervened.

Instead, color returned to their faces, and strength filled their limbs until they could finally breathe easily.

The two men stood up, helping each other, and looked at Oliver like he was a Saint descended from the heavens.

Uncomfortable, he gave them a nod and moved away. His eyes flitted to the side, where he noticed figures watching the proceedings with grim looks from behind a curtain.

As soon as the people noticed him looking, they fell away from the window in a hurry, and he had little doubt they’d run to the cellar to hide.

Most of Thelma’s free population seemed to have done that, preferring to weather the storm rather than help in the defense or the slave rebellion. Not that they could have done anything to turn the tide, given that they likely all had civilian professions. Facing Journeyman or even just Apprentice soldiers, they would have been wheat against a scythe.

Oliver hurried forward, deciding that he had enough side adventures for the moment. The third blessing hadn’t come, and he knew better than to try and force it to happen. He would just have to wait to be graced by the Light’s presence like his mentor had told him in the first place.

Entering the main thoroughfare, he saw hundreds of soldiers stream by. They chased defenders, though they seemed mostly intentioned to get them away from the fortifications rather than to slaughter them to a man.

A few noticed him, but they didn’t stop, for which he was grateful. It would have been mortifying to receive a salute in the middle of a conquest.

Pushing some mana into his feet - enough to lend them swiftness but not to activate a skill, as he didn’t want to run dry so soon - Oliver rapidly made his way toward the town center, where he could hear the bulk of the fighting happening.

When he finally reached the street's end, it opened into a massive plaza at least twice Alpar’s. It was immediately evident that here, the main resistance was taking place.

Dozens of militiamen, alongside sailors, adventurers, and even the occasional knight, were doing their best to keep the advancing revolutionaries from gaining further ground.

It was a losing proposition, as at the center of it all, the Hero was handily beating the most well-equipped man - whom Oliver identified as the Captain of the town guard from the many briefings he participated in - and two other soldiers.

His feet brought him to the fight before he could stop himself, but at least he had the wherewithal to wait until Leonard had disarmed the man with a brutal combo of a deep thrust that pierced his thighs and a twirl of his arm that sent the Captain’s sword clattering away. Another soldier, with the trappings of a sergeant, got a boot to the face that sent him flying, and the last, a knight by the looks of it, threw his sword down.

Sir Leonard gestured with a hand, and all three were bound with ropes of Light before turning to give him a once-over. He smiled, seemingly pleased that he wasn’t horribly injured. “Had fun?”

“I didn’t get the third blessing.” Oliver blurted out. It wasn’t the thing that pressed into his mind the most - that was Ulf’s dead eyes staring back at him accusingly - but somehow, it was what came out.

Leonard chuckled, “You’ll have your chance. Forcing it just makes it harder to achieve.”

Oliver nodded, knowing it was the truth. It still annoyed him to be so close and yet be denied his prize, but he could be patient when needed.

All of a sudden, the air took a different feel. A weight seemed to settle on the plaza, and all fighting stopped.

“Kill them all!” A reedy voice shouted.

Out of the ragged group of defenders, a figure emerged.

Green-skinned and taller than any soldier around her, she was still obviously a woman, given her figure. She held a massive sword in her hands, and her eyes looked peaceful, almost meditative. And yet, Over’s gut told him she was the most dangerous person he had encountered so far, aside from his mentor and Lady Amelia.

“I am Neer, slave guard of Lord Mayor Dandelion De Hoop,” She announced, and Oliver could see it was the truth by the dark collar she wore.

Leonard stepped forth unbidden, and everyone moved away, creating a circle without being prompted.

“I am Leonard Weiss, Grand Marshal of the Revolution.”

That was enough of an introduction. The two combatants took on a stance and shot forward after a second of tense silence.

A massive wave of air slammed into an invisible shield five inches away from his face, and Oliver cried out in surprise, joined by many others. Next to him, Lady Amelia emerged from the shadows, and he knew the barrier was her doing.

Inside, the two warriors fought with incredible intensity. Neer repeatedly brought down her massive greatsword with enviable ease, destroying the plaza's pavement and causing the air to tremble.

Despite the force of her blows, Leonard effortlessly redirected them, wielding his sword like a conductor with a baton.

No spell left Neer’s lips. No great skill was invoked. No flashy elemental empowerment was cast. The half-orc only used her absolute strength and an ability refined with single-minded devotion to last as long as possible against the Hero.

She swung her greatsword in a cross blow with enough strength to rip a tree in half, yet it found an unyielding wall once more.

Sir Leonard even used his pauldrons to block the attacks. Their strength didn’t move him. Finally, it seemed he had seen enough because he started attacking.

From the moment he took his first step forward, Neer was forced to backpedal. Thick, dark mana coalesced around her sword as she pushed to her limits to hold back the divine sword. And yet, it chipped. Again and again, the massive weapon lost the duel, parting with more pieces of itself.

Until it could hold together no more and broke despite the empowerment coursing through it.

To her credit, the half-orc still tried to keep fighting. She moved with the fluidity of a seasoned veteran, aiming to grapple with Sir Leonard, not resigned to losing.

It seemed, however, that the Hero had seen enough because his arm blurred forward, and a flash of light blinded everyone, obscuring the end of the fight.

Chapter 27 - The First Milestone Is Still A Milestone - Leonard 13

“Go and make sure the local slaves don’t kill everyone. Most of the nobles are guilty, but some decent people might be mixed in. Newly freed individuals are not the best judges of character. They will have a chance to tell their tale before a judge," Leonard ordered, despite how much he would have liked to just raze the noble district and be done with it.

Cleaning up Alpar had been a hassle and a half, and he had personally known everyone there. Doing the same to Thelma would take too long. Luckily, he had people to delegate to now.

Gerard saluted and directed a squad of his men to follow as he marched straight to the demarcation line, where the houses transitioned into villas. Considering the population of Thelma, the space occupied by the nobility was excessive. Large mansions and gardens comprised a third of the town despite belonging to only minor lordlings. Having witnessed the opulence of Mellassoria, the kingdom’s capital, Leonard wasn’t particularly surprised. It was just another instance of the local nobility being out of control.

With a sigh, he turned to his fallen opponent. The half-orc had fought better than he expected. Indeed, she had to have reached the high Expert tier to be able to wield her aura so easily, and yet she had refrained from using powerful skills.

She must have been ordered to fight me with all she had, so she’s either the most lopsided Expert I’ve ever met, or more likely, she found a way to fight against the compulsion.

He observed the dark collar around her neck, looking for evidence to prove his theory. It seemed decently made, strong enough to contain even a fourth blessing warrior, but to his keen eye, it sported signs of burnout.

It wouldn’t have led to breaking any time soon, but it would have failed over the months or even years.

“You must have fought that thing with all you have, huh?” Leonard asked gently once he saw her start to come back.

Before she could answer, he placed a glowing finger against it. Neer flinched, a likely conditioned response to anyone reaching for her collar, but didn’t attack him. She might have been too battered to attempt, but given the willpower she had demonstrated, Leonard thought it likelier she had just decided to allow him to do whatever he wanted.

It’d be better than living under Dandelion De Hoop.

But Leonard’s intention wasn’t to hurt her. Instead, he crafted a thin shield of light around the artifact, being careful not to trigger its failsafe. Once it was complete, he cast a rudimentary implosion spell on it and supplied it with as much mana as needed. It was just a drop in the ocean anyway.

“What are you doing?! Kill him!” A nasal voice interrupted him, though it was too late. With a flick, he activated the magic and watched the dark collar collapse upon itself, its foul energies purged from the world.

Rather stupidly, the Mayor ran up to the still-stunned Neer, ignoring the real danger before him. “Stand up, you stupid bitch! He’s in front of you! Kill him now!”

She blinked incredulously, touching her neck in wonder. She ran a finger along its entire circumference, where the collar had once sat, and chuckled in delight.

That quickly turned into laughter and then full-on cackling.

Neer laughed for an entire minute, rolling on the ground and holding her stomach. Tears fell from her eyes as she kept laughing.

Finally, she stopped. Her once-master still stood there, flummoxed at the sight. All preservation instinct had apparently left him. Neer looked at the man and then at Leonard questioningly.

“Don’t kill him. I have questions I want to ask. He’s all yours after that," he answered with a smile. That seemed enough for the Mayor to finally understand what had happened because all color left his face.

“You can’t do that! I’m a noble of His Majesty’s Court! Even barbarians know this!” He shouted, but it was quickly stopped as a very green hand covered his features.

“We are not barbarians. We are worse,” was Leonard’s answer, and he walked away, signaling for one of the sergeants to keep an eye on the situation.

“Don’t let her hurt him too much, but she should be allowed to release her frustrations.” He murmured, and the man saluted, enthusiastically taking to the task.

I don’t like torture, but revenge is a different thing. That poor woman must have been a slave for the majority of her life to have corroded her collar so much. And she’ll be allowed to bring down the axe when it comes to that.

Chuckling, Leonard moved towards the docks. He could sense Gerard rounding up the nobles and knew that he could likely get a fight if he took over clean-up duty, but it would feel too much like stealing experience from his men. They’d need it in the future.

Neer was a different matter, as only Amelia and he could have handled her. Gerard and Gareth could have, too, but they’d have risked killing her, and Leonard felt it would have been a waste. Even beyond the sheer disgust the practice of slavery invoked in him, losing someone like her couldn’t be allowed.

Turning his head slightly, he saw Oliver fall into step with him. His squire had come far from the skinny boy who pleaded to be trained. He felt he had made a good choice in accepting him. One day, he would become a pillar for the new society he was starting to build.

“Are they fleeing?” The boy asked, squinting at something in the distance.

Leonard turned and saw that, indeed, some ships were beginning to leave the piers, likely having realized that the battle was lost. “We can’t have that,” he murmured, lifting a hand.

[Stasis] was a spell of the second tier, typically taught to practitioners of Holy Magic to prevent wounded patients from dying.

Leonard used his unending mana to apply it to seven merchant ships.

Golden light covered them, from hull to sail, and they stopped in place. No matter that the wind was pushing them to the open seas or the crews were frantically rowing, the ships did not move.

“Well, that’s one way to do it.” Oliver choked out, scratching his head in disbelief.

“It’s not very efficient, but it does the job. Any other spell risked breaking something, and then I would have had to lift the ships from the sea to prevent the crews from drowning. Better to go with a larger expense at first to prevent a later one that’s even more onerous,” Leonard said, slipping into a teaching tone.

His squire nodded, looking a short way from whipping out a pen and paper.

Chuckling, Leonard accelerated his pace, “Let’s see exactly what they felt they needed to keep away from us, eh?”

What had pushed the merchants to run away, it turned out, was slaves. Of course, it was slaves.

Hetnia, as a province, had never attracted too much trade and was traditionally only visited as a stop on the way from the southern countries to visit the capital. The Incursion had made it even poorer, which should have kept savvy merchants away, but instead, there had been an influx of ships coming to visit their ports.

They brought a lot of desperately needed supplies, which were well received by all. The only issue was that instead of benevolent saviors - even though no one expected merchants to be such - they had come to exploit the region’s vulnerability.

The only payment the people could give after the price gouging was revealed was flesh. Slaves were sold to foreign buyers in droves as desperate and dispossessed people fled from the Void.

Even now, months after the last crack in the fabric of reality had been sealed, they were still around, looking to take the last scraps before someone else got them.

Merchants from Hammerfest were the worst. Over the centuries, the empire had become one of the major powers in their corner of the world. They fielded an army so powerful that when unleashed, it overcame the Rondon Magocracy in a single month.

Their Bloody Legions had shattered the once vibrant state, leaving behind a smoking, ruined husk. As far as Leonard knew, the remnants of its magical culture survived only in secret gatherings and hidden schools. Rondon’s economy had been redirected to serve the needs of the Hammerfest Empire, primarily in the extraction of resources and forced labor. The once-magnificent magical defenses and towers were dismantled, leaving it vulnerable to potential destruction if its new owner deemed the colony deserving of punishment.

Such a history had made the Hammerfest merchants proud and arrogant. They knew very well that no one aside from Lantea could defeat them. Even the Handriatic Union and the Brander Republic - two countries with significant investments in defense - treaded lightly around Hammerfest.

Leonard didn’t care for any of it. He wouldn’t kill the merchants outright, as that way laid a complete embargo that he could ill afford at the moment, but he wouldn’t allow them to leave with hulls full of his people.

“Do you not understand what will happen once Thoren Splatterskull hears of this?” One of the merchants he had prevented from fleeing ground out, looking one step away from screaming.

It seemed the man had heard enough of his prowess to earn some respect, a privilege reserved only for the strong in his culture. Regrettably, that did not suffice to silence his tongue.

“I understand perfectly well that he won’t like it. I also know that you are such a small gnat before Splatterskull that he will gladly ignore you if it means not drawing my attention away from a domestic campaign. The man is known as a good strategist. He won’t stop me from what he sees as weakening Haylich for good," Leonard explained calmly.

That seemed to do the trick because the assembled merchants before him deflated. While those from Hammerfest were the loudest, they weren’t the only ones complaining that their cargo had been seized unlawfully. Still, his earlier show of might and unconventional response took the wind out of their sails, and he could finally send them away from the quartermaster’s office he had commandeered after taking the docks.

Leonard massaged his temples lightly once they were gone and resisted the urge to chase and run them all through with his sword.

Just as the other countries won’t attack me as long as it looks like I’m only concentrated on the interior, they will have no trouble banding together to destroy an upstart if I begin butchering their merchants. I give myself good odds against any one of them, but fighting them all together is too much even for me. I can’t be everywhere, and the losses of life would be unacceptable. Especially before I take over Haylich.

“Should I send the last merchant away with the others?” Oliver asked from the door, watching him curiously.

“No, no. Send him in. This is the only one who had no slaves, right?” he asked, earning a nod.

Soon, a tall, balding man with a hook nose who held up a pair of silver glasses entered the room. He wore a typical Brander frock, with a cotton overshirt and high boots made of sea-snake leather.

“Grand Marshal, what an honor. Congratulations on your elevation.” The merchant said it with a tone that was so deadpan that Leonard couldn’t be sure if he was sarcastic. “My name is Augustus Milner, and I am a humble captain. How may I assist you?”

“You are the only foreign merchant that didn’t have slaves in your hull, and given that it was reportedly full of timber, you didn’t come here to buy any,” Leonard replied flatly.

Augustus waited patiently for him to continue, but when it became clear Leonard wasn’t interested in saying more, he sighed, “Slavery is outlawed in the Brander Republic. It has been since the Civil War. I have heard you wish to rid Haylich of its blight?”

Leonard could feel the honesty in the man’s aura. That was enough for his aims.

“You’ll do. I have a task for you, my good man. You’ll be rewarded handsomely if you see it through.”

When a greedy gleam appeared in Augustus’ eyes, Leonard smiled.

Chapter 28 - A Little PR Never Hurt Anyone - Leonard 14

“There is a pattern of behavior here, Grand Marshal. Enough for me to say that this man can’t be rehabilitated. Not in the near future at least, and is likely to resume his activities if given the chance.” Sergeant Morris announced, staring down at the trashing slaver.

The crowd leaned forward, emanating glee at the sight. Leonard would have thought they’d get bored after the seventeenth execution, but they seemed just as glad as the first time. Maybe even more.

He was pretty sure that more than one ex-slave was getting their jollies off at the sight, though he pushed that thought away. He didn’t care about anyone’s proclivities as long as they didn’t involve children or people who didn’t consent.

Returning to the dead man who didn’t know he was dead yet, Leonard lifted a hand, “I have heard your counsel. Having accessed the accused’s personal records, I can say with a clean conscience that this man is guilty!”

The crowd roared in approval. They hadn’t liked it when he had assigned different punishments to nobles who had only been tangentially involved with the slave trade, though the confiscation of their wealth had gone a long way to appease the people. But whenever someone was found guilty of enforcing slavery and profiting off it, like the merchant that was currently trying to shout through the magical muzzle, death was the only option.

Leonard didn’t think people were irredeemable. Some had deviations that required specific care, while others only needed time and consequences to understand. Unfortunately, he was at the beginning of a war and couldn’t justify setting up alternative punishments for slavers. Not that he minded. They might not be irredeemable, but they were still pieces of shit.

The merchant was dragged away by two burly soldiers and, in short order, liberated from his head. Leonard tuned out the crowd, going over his schedule.

I still need to deal with the looters. Amelia suggested getting rid of them, too, since we need to set high standards for safety. I’m inclined to agree with her on this, though I don’t necessarily think it’s a crime that warrants death. Forced labor might be better, though I need to find a way to make it sound different from slavery. I know it’s not the same thing, but people might think me a hypocrite if I throw down the nobility just to force people to work for me unrewarded…

Frankly, Leonard would much rather participate in the trials at the garrison. There, his Ministers were looking for gold among the volunteers who had been clamoring to join up with the army.

As always, there was no shortage of young people spoiling for a fight, especially when they were told the cause was righteous and pay was assured, thanks to the Revolutionary Army cracking open all the nobles’ vaults.

He knew that Amelia had been busy distributing pamphlets to capitalize on that. The long line of young men and women gathered at the barracks alone attested to her success.

“The accused had been found in the middle of a mansion in the upper district, stuffing bolts of silk in a bag,” The sergeant read when a new man - a thin, malnourished rogue who had a sheepish expression. At least this one was unlikely to make much of a fuss.

“Your name?” He was prodded.

“*Cough* Roland, m’lord," he said, looking at the crowds who were sizing him up, trying to understand if they’d see more blood today or if the spectacle was done.

“And how do you plead, Roland?” Leonard asked, allowing a hint of his power to seep into his voice. It wasn’t a truth spell, but he hadn’t seen the need to use those yet, and his time was better served elsewhere.

Luckily, it seemed enough to let the rogue understand that he couldn’t wiggle out of this as he slumped. “Guilty, m’lord. But I was hungry!”

Leonard resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Hunger was undoubtedly a powerful force, but if that was the truth, he should have been found in a pantry, not a lady’s wardrobe.

He had given up on stopping the locals from calling him a lord, too. The soldiers referred to him as Grand Marshal, his official title, but there wasn’t much difference between the two things to the average person. He’d have to work on it, but that was for later, too. A lot of things were being pushed to the future. Enough that Leonard wondered if he’d ever finish a day without the threat of looming tasks ahead.

“You are being cooperative. That is good; I’ll keep it in mind for your sentencing.” Leonard released the pressure, and the man relaxed, sighing.

The sergeant asked a few more questions, such as if this was the first offense and whatnot, while Leonard did his best to tune the man’s babble out as he tried to decide on the punishment.

Considering the number of people volunteering for the army, they would have enough to form another Corp, but he had to think about the future. Professional judges would use his decisions today as a precedent for the new republic he’d form once he had conquered enough territory.

Finally, the sergeant was done, and it was his turn. “I find you, Roland of Thelma, guilty of attempted looting. As you have been cooperative, I will lighten your sentence. You can either serve for five years in the engineer corps as a worker or join the army for two years on reduced pay.”

That was the best decision in the end. The engineer corps weren’t part of Haylich’s tradition, but they were present in Brander, so there wasn't much grumbling when he pushed for their creation. Leonard wouldn’t call himself a military historian, but he knew enough to say that having a well-trained logistics force would be fundamental in the coming campaign, and he had to start somewhere. He had already given a mandate to Gerard to open up recruiting to Journeyman and above artisans and civilian mages and promise them good pay. Building them up into a cohesive force would take some time, but it’d be worth it.

The army would be better off with less reliance on him. A few quick victories wouldn’t guarantee an easy campaign, particularly after departing from the southern coast.

Now that I think of it, I should try recruiting a few more decent fighters. Numbers are good and all, but when a Champion takes the field, there isn’t much even a thousand Journeymen can do.

Ultimately, the rogue decided to join the army as he expected. Higher pay and shorter terms made the prospects much more enticing, though Leonard wondered if the man would feel the same after being put through Gerard’s boot camp.

Finally, after several more similar judgments, he was free. Or, well, almost, as he had one last stop before he could dedicate himself to planning the next move.

Walking through the streets of Thelma, one would think it impossible that just a few days before it had been sacked. Not that Leonard had allowed his soldiers free rein, but the rebellious slaves had certainly not held back, and some damage had been inevitable, especially when the noble households gathered their courage and started using their stockpiles of firearms.

A few buildings had gone down, but all in all, the whole operation had concluded with surprisingly little destruction, which went a long way to turn the mood of the conquered population in his favor. Amelia had also worked hard with Lia’s network to spread food and medical attention to the neediest, turning them into supporters almost overnight.

Leonard had then ordered his fledgling mage corps to prioritize rebuilding the few places that had been damaged. In a short time, the town had returned to its former splendor. The main street, through which he was walking, bustled with people. Given the upcoming event, the crowds were understandable.

There is much less international merchant traffic, but considering what those people were dealing with, it’s better this way.

“Look, Mom, it’s the Hero!” A young girl shouted, pointing at Leonard and his escort. She wore a thin dress that had seen better days, but her skin was clean, and her energy was unchanged by the recent events.

Her mother, a woman with tired eyes and thin limbs, tried to pull the girl away, thinking that she wouldn’t be well received. If Leonard had been a local noble, she would have been correct and might have even risked being roughed up.

Instead, Leonard halted his march and walked over to the girl, kneeling so that they were at eye level. “Hello, young lady. To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?” He said in a gentle tone.

“You talk funny!" she laughed. It was a clear, bright sound that chased away the tiredness in his heart. Leonard had just begun his conquest, and yet work seemed to be already overwhelming. He felt it was important to remember why he was doing this.

Her mother made to apologize, embarrassed and horrified, but Leonard waved her away with a kind smile that made the woman blush. How else could I address such a spirited lady?

The girl laughed again and, to his surprise, hugged him. Leonard gently, oh so gently, gathered her in his arms, careful to barely touch her. She was so fragile compared to him that he was genuinely afraid that even just breathing next to her might hurt her.

When she stepped back, the girl favored him with a lovely, gap-toothed smile. “Thank you, Lord Hero! Mom says you saved us!”

A glance at the girl’s neck revealed a distinct mark where a collar had previously been.

Leonard didn’t react beyond smiling back and favoring the mother with a regal nod, but inside, he could feel a familiar rage being stoked again. The depths of depravity people could go to would never cease to stun him.

He pulled away, mood somber once more, and resumed his walk. The soldiers around him noticed his shift but didn’t comment. It’d be a while before they had enough familiarity with him to feel comfortable saying anything, and Leonard wasn’t in the mood to reassure them. Soon, he reached the market square, where his mages had lifted a large stone stand.

Standing at the edge of the crowd that had gathered, he recognized Neer, the slave guard of the Mayor who had sworn herself into his service upon being freed. With a few long steps, he joined her.

“I dreamed of this day,” she said without looking at him, eyes fixated on the empty stand. “I knew the chances were low, but I never stopped hoping and working for it to come."

There was a fire in her voice. An emotion he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Leonard thought it might be gratitude and satisfaction, but that didn’t feel right. There was something deeper that could only be cultivated through the darkest times.

A trumpet broke through the din of the crowd, and everyone quieted down while Leonard and Neer walked over to the stands, ascending to the top. From the other side, a group of soldiers accompanied Gareth and another man.

Dandelion De Hoop had seen better days. His face was swollen, and he stumbled, only held upright by the knight’s firm grip.

He hadn’t been tortured exactly, but extracting information from a noble trained in the basics of mental defenses was a grueling process. It had been difficult even for Amelia to ensure he didn’t die from the intrusion. Pain helped to break concentration and made the job much faster.

Turning to the crowds, Leonard opened his arms and addressed them. “People of Thelma! Today, you are here to witness justice. Not revenge. Not anger. Dandelion De Hoop has committed and confessed to innumerable crimes. Today, you can see that justice comes for all.”

With that, he stepped back and gestured for Neer to go ahead. The half-orc could barely contain a savage grin as she lifted the headman’s axe with one hand.

Leonard could see her visibly savoring the experience and didn’t begrudge her. Light knew he’d do worse once he got his hands on the people responsible for Belinda’s death.

The axe came down, smoothly severing the head from the body.

Chapter 29 - All You Need Is Sabotage - Amelia 5

Thunder rumbled over Thelma as the summer storm did its best to make its displeasure known. Heavy rain poured down; enough that almost no one dared leave their homes.

Amelia walked through the downpour without hurry.

The water stopped well before her skin, seemingly understanding that it would mar something beautiful by touching her. Her purple eyes glowed ominously as she listened to her summon’s feedback, occasionally nodding and humming.

“I’ll have to change a few things if they are giving command to Count Pollus as it seems. But this is good too. By the time he’s ready to take the field, we’ll have a hardened army.” She murmured, dismissing her shadow.

The imposing building in front of her might be deemed impressive only by the country bumpkins who lived in this area of the south, cut off from the civilized world by the Serpent Sea and the Darkwood as they were.

Amelia didn’t bat an eye as she reached the mayoral mansion and entered it, barely slowing to nod to the two guards who held the door open for her. Inside the building, safe from the fury of the elements, people rushed around, yelling at each other to make way and waving pieces of paper.

Still, no one impeded her path, and she left the burgeoning bureaucrats of the revolution to their jobs. Despite their chaotic methods, they seemed to be doing good work, and she knew Damien was subtly guiding them to become more efficient. The vicar might not be as magically talented as her or little Jean, but one had to look beyond simple battlefield capability to run a country. Cunning and social talent were also important. She was very relieved that Leonard seemed to understand this already.

“My lady!” One of the guards standing outside the council room saluted, and she granted him a fleeting smile, secretly enjoying how the trained soldier reddened.

Entering the room, Amelia was pleased to see someone had the good sense to remove most of the tacky decorations. A large banner depicting the golden griffin with the broken chain in its mouth - the new symbol of the revolution - had taken the place of a Lantean tapestry that she was sure had been sold as some prank, given its eye-watering colors. Knowing the elves, they must have found it amusing how poor human nobles from the hicks were willing to part with what little coin they had to claim one of the famous art pieces.

The rest of the council was already present, except for Gareth, who was still busy drilling the recruits. With their tight timeline, they couldn’t afford to waste even rainy days like this.

“Are you finally done with your skullduggery?” Lia croaked from her chair, favoring her with an impish grin that looked out of place on such an old hobgoblin.

The revolution’s coming had revived her more thoroughly than any of her brews. Where before she grew visibly weary with every month that more and more people came flooding into Alpar, she now had a revitalized, almost girlish air about her. Considering that Amelia knew just how involved Lia had been in removing dissenters and chasing down useful whispers, she had weird tastes, but that wasn’t anything new.

“I have completed my duties as Spymistress," Amelia answered, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. While Leonard might not mind being casual during these meetings - everybody respected him too much for such a thing to lower his standing - she preferred to maintain a more professional demeanor. After all, they were laying the foundational stones of a nation. It wouldn’t be appropriate for her to be perceived as a frivolous woman. Not that she would allow such a portrayal, but still...

“Anything we need to know?” Leonard asked. It was one of the many things Amelia appreciated about him. He knew not to overstep and micromanage everything. He trusted her to do her duty.

“There are some interesting whispers. As we already knew, De Hoop sent a communication about our arrival here to Treon and one to Hassel, though he didn’t manage to tell them the town fell. I learned that some of the more capable nobles in Hassel are pushing for a rapid mustering, though it will take a long time before they overcome the larger factions’ resistance. No one wants a new war so soon after the Incursion.” Unsaid went that it was their actions in forsaking the southern lands that pushed things in this direction. Had the nobles helped the dispossessed as promised, the revolution would have found much poorer soil.

That wasn’t to say it wouldn’t have happened. Leonard’s hatred of slavery and aristocracy was too great and well-known. Someone would have tested him, and even if they didn’t kill Belinda, they would have provoked him into acting. And Amelia knew very well that he could fight this war by himself if necessary. A targeted strike at the royal palace would be enough to send the country into chaos.

Hearing that, Leonard became more serious, and the others followed suit. “How much time do we have before we can expect the army to show up?” He asked.

“If nothing slows them down, they could be ready to march within a few weeks, though traversing the Darkwood will test any green army. As far as I know, the orc tribes have resettled well. They won’t appreciate any further transgression of the Pact," Amelia replied.

Everyone knew how slow the response to any problem tended to be in Hetnia. Many towns on the eastern coast had been razed to the ground during the early days of the Incursion specifically because one noble or the other ordered the men under their command to parade or hunt instead of marching them to where they were needed. The fact that it could take only a few weeks for the Southern Army to be called up was quite surprising.

“I suppose you expect the command to be given to Count Pollus?” Leonard asked, scratching his chin. It was the only real possibility, given the notorious lack of martial talent of House Hetnia. The Duke and his children were much more likely to spend the tributes they gathered yearly from their lands in the capital living lavishly.

Amelia nodded, dark hair cascading around her gracefully. “Yes, the Count is the only realistic option. If it had been a simple rebellion, the command could have been given to a noble scion, but since it’s us, they have to fight seriously; even Duke Hetnia won’t take chances. Pollus has significant merits under his belt from his time in the 1st Mage Corp in the Capital, and he has been the de-facto ruler of Hetnia for years now. He won’t allow any upstart to take command.”

The news was received with grim acceptance. No one expected the upcoming fight to be easy despite the quick victories in the first two battles. However, hearing that the enemy would have a skilled commander was still unwelcome.

“I assume you have a way of affecting the speed of their mustering since you specified they would take a few weeks without interference?” Gerard asked. The new minister of war was much more shrewd than his fame as a headstrong commander would make one think, and he had shown to be particularly cunning when plotting out their future moves, always taking into account all possibilities.

We’ll have to do something about his personal might. He’s a good general, great even, but it will be worthless if he dies the first time someone with a good aim shoots him in the head. But I suppose that’s more Leonard’s business. I need to trust him to handle these things by himself, or I’ll never be able to do my job.

Still, a suggestion here or there would be enough to nudge a talented knight like him in the right direction.

“You are correct,” she replied with a small smile that made the man cough in embarrassment. They’d have to work on that too. A weakness to beautiful women might be useful in enemies, but in allies, it was unacceptable. “I have several assets in place that should make it much harder for them to go through the initial phases, and even after they begin marching, I’m preparing some options for delaying them further.”

It wouldn’t do for the revolutionary army to be caught before they were ready to fight. Ideally, they’d be able to conquer the entire southern belt of towns all the way to Treon before the army mustered, but that wasn’t likely. Not unless Leonard started showing more of his power and facilitated their advance, but that could have the unfortunate side-effect of making their forces completely dependent on him rather than building their own strength.

Or we could attract more attention than we can handle. Better to keep a low profile for the moment.

“Good, we need as much time as possible. The main army corps won’t move as long as the fighting is restricted to Hetnia, and the local forces still have to engage us, so concentrate on delaying their efforts," Leonard ordered before turning to Gerard. “We need to use the time Amelia is earning for us efficiently. The training you have devised for the recruits is good for now, but nothing can beat real-world experience. You have a week before we need to move out. Giving Lamprey Port too much time to prepare could be disastrous."

The minister nodded sternly, “Yes, sir! We’ll focus our efforts on preparing the men to fight against larger forces, with an emphasis on personal excellence. I have already drafted plans, in collaboration with Sir Gareth, to initiate the formation of elite forces. We believe that some of those methods can be applied to the larger force. We may not match the Royal Army in numbers for a long time, but by training high-quality troops, we will still be on par with them.”

“I have finished sorting out our storage of herbs and alchemical ingredients. I can supply you with a hundred batches of stamina potions that should allow you to squeeze the men more,” Lia interrupted, sliding over a piece of paper to Gerard, who immediately began reading it.

Soon after, he nodded in apparent satisfaction. “From our earlier discussion, I thought we’d only have enough for the elite squad since you needed the time to brew mana potions for the new mages and healing elixirs for the campaign, but if these numbers are correct, we’ll be able to get much more done.” The grin on his face showed that the poor recruits had a grueling few days ahead of them.

“The local nobles had their own stores, which were untouched by the looting as they had magical protections. By commandeering them all and conscripting all of my apprentices’ apprentices, I’ll be able to produce much more than I initially expected,” the old hobgoblin replied with a feral grin.

She’s having fun, eh? I imagine Jessica and her girls will be too busy brewing to do their original jobs, but that might be for the better. If we want to build a new society, we need to offer lucrative jobs to everyone, even the dregs of society. As long as they are loyal to the revolution, of course.

“That’s very good, Lia," Leonard praised, earning a more moderate smile from the woman. “I had thought I’d need to be around to act as a healer since I’m the only one capable of casting [Regeneration] without needing to rest, but this will free up my time."

Amelia could see the inkling of an idea form in his eyes and resisted the urge to demand to know what it was. He’d tell her if it was important enough, and it wasn’t like he was obligated to involve her in everything. It was important to remember that. She didn’t want to become too oppressive.

She had known that Leonard had spent all his free time, while not conducting court and administering justice, at the barracks, but she hadn’t known he was acting as a healer. It made sense, though, since the local priests under Damien were being put to use to get the freed slaves to good health, and the magic they could use was only of the first and second tier. Everyone knew that receiving [Healing Touch] would set back one’s training progress to what it was at the beginning of the day.

[Regeneration] was a completely different matter, being a spell of the third tier.

With that, the meeting was adjourned, though Amelia remained in her seat. One look from Leonard was enough to know he wanted to talk in private.

Chapter 30 - A Stroll To Clear The Mind - Leonard 15

To say that Amelia hadn’t been amused when he told her he would be leaving for a few days would be an understatement. His friend had tried to reason with him, explaining calmly that he had responsibilities now, and once it became clear he wouldn’t be swayed, not so calmly that if the enemy pulled their heads out of their asses for a moment and realized their only chance of squashing the revolution was now that they had yet to get going, they’d gather as many forces as they could for a decisive strike.

Leonard had replied that since he intended to go north, he’d be the first to know if Count Pollus started moving, which Amelia had shot down by saying her biggest worry was what Garva, the western province and a military stronghold, would do.

He had conceded that a naval strike force from Garva could obliterate the nascent revolutionary army before it could truly come into its own. But then he also reminded her that while he’d be gone for a few days, she would stay and that he trusted her to hold off any attack long enough for him to return.

That, and the firmness with which he said it, had been enough to halt her protests. Amelia had insisted he take a [Nightstalker] in his shadow along so that they could keep in contact no matter the distance, and he had acquiesced, knowing when to concede.

Thus, Leonard escaped Thelma in the middle of the night, having only alerted Oliver and Gerard at the last second before making off into the Darkwood.

Just at the edge of the forest, where the army had made camp before the assault on Thelma, Leonard shed his armor and the trappings of leadership. He took out a shoddy leather armor from his travel pack that wouldn’t be out of place on an adventurer down on his luck. Some dirt on his face and through his hair lessened the impact of his features, making him look more forgettable. Or as forgettable as a six-foot-five mountain of muscle could look.

He didn’t intend to stay anywhere for long, it was just a way to prevent fellow travelers from identifying him as the Hero too quickly.

The air was cool and thick with the scent of resin and damp earth as Leonard sprinted through the forest, his steps swift and silent. The Darkwood was a place of deep shadows and tangled underbrush, but he moved through it with the ease of someone intimately familiar with its secrets.

He had spent years fighting here, regaining at times miles and at times feet of territory from every clash with the Void. He had been more naive then, content with his task and ready to sacrifice himself if needed. He had allowed the glory of being a Hero and his surprising talent for Holy Magic to blind him.

The forest had changed in the months since then. The marks of devastation left by the Void's presence were slowly fading as nature reclaimed its domain. The undergrowth was lush and vibrant, dotted with delicate ferns and vibrant mosses that thrived in the dim light filtering through the dense canopy overhead.

The fauna, too, was returning. Leonard spotted a family of Owlbears lumbering through the trees, the massive creatures seemingly at peace. Yet, as soon as they sensed his presence, they froze, their instincts warning them of immense danger, before retreating into the shadows, leaving him to pass unchallenged.

Further along, a pack of Shadow Wolves, their dark fur blending seamlessly into the twilight gloom of the forest, watched him with wary eyes. Leonard noticed how they instinctively avoided his path, a primal fear overriding any thought of attack.

As he ran, the atmosphere of the Darkwood seemed to shift around him, the dense forest alive with the rustling of leaves and the distant calls of birds and animals.

I missed this. Not that what I’m doing now is unimportant, but things were easier then. Or at least they looked easier. I just didn’t know the truth. But ignorance can be a shield. For a while, at least.

He moved swiftly, maintaining his pace effortlessly as he covered mile after mile. The terrain shifted beneath him, from dense thickets to clearings bathed in dappled sunlight, where deep craters that had once seen battles were reclaimed by vibrant grass. Leonard navigated it all with the agility and grace of someone deeply connected to the natural world. He marveled at how the forest was healing, the scars of battle slowly fading as life returned in abundance.

The deeper he went, the denser the forest became. The light that filtered through the thick canopy overhead was sparse, casting shifting patterns on the forest floor. The ancient trees, towering and intertwined, created a labyrinth of shadows and hidden paths, but Leonard moved with ease, guided by an almost preternatural sixth sense. He could feel his quarry in the distance.

He slowed his pace, his steps becoming more deliberate as he entered a part of the forest where the air felt heavier, charged with a mystical energy that tingled against his skin. This part of the Darkwood was older, and Leonard’s heightened senses picked up on the subtle signs of powerful magic at play.

He eventually emerged into a vast clearing where a single ebony-black tree stood. It was massive, with gnarled leafy branches reaching out like twisted arms toward the sky. The ground around it was covered in red moss, and the air was thick with the hum of mana currents swirling around and below the tree. It was a place of ancient power, and Leonard felt a familiar comfort in its presence.

He had taken shelter here after his squad had been ambushed and was protected while he recovered. He has been in debt ever since and came expressly to repay a fraction of that debt.

Stepping forward, he announced his presence with a clear, resonant voice. "Guardian of the Darkwood, I, Leonard Weiss, come to seek an audience.”

There was a moment of absolute silence, and then, from the tree trunk, a figure emerged. The dryad was stunning, her dark skin gleaming with a hint of green, her eyes like startling emeralds that seemed to glow with inner light. Twin branched horns sprouted from her head. She moved with ethereal grace, her form shifting slightly as if she were part of the tree itself, her hair flowing like a cascade of leaves. She was beautiful in the inhuman way all fey were. Just alien enough to prod at a forgotten instinct in the back of the mind that screamed something wasn’t right.

"Leonard," she greeted warmly, her voice like a soft melody in the quiet clearing. "Have you come to take your place with me at last?" She smiled teasingly, a playful light in her eyes.

Leonard chuckled, shaking his head. "I fear my duties still keep me from accepting your generous offer, dear Nemas.”

The dryad pouted, a touch of mischief in her expression. "You always have an excuse, Leonard. But I suppose I must wait yet again. Soon enough, you’ll tire of the mortals.”

He smiled apologetically before his expression grew serious. "I've come to inform you, and through you, the residents of the Darkwood, that a war has broken out in Hetnia. The nobles have overstepped, and this time, it was too far. We might see fighting in the forest.” He didn’t add anything about Belinda. However much his heart still ached for her, he knew Nemas well enough to understand the dryad wouldn’t care about her death. She operated on a different wavelength.

The dryad's playful demeanor faded as she listened, her eyes narrowing with concern. "You always bring trouble with you, dear Leonard.”

As always, Nemas emphasized his name, which he had foolishly given to her after being saved. They had both been surprised to learn that whatever fey magic managed to bind mortals to her will when they freely gave her their name didn’t work on him. Leonard suspected that the nature of his first class - Hero of the Light - didn’t allow such weakness. From then on, the dryad had treated him as an equal, much to the surprise of his men. She had even avoided stealing their names as a sign of respect, which was unheard of.

"I know," Leonard replied softly. "But it is important that you're aware. I will try to keep the fighting away from the woods, but some spillover is inevitable. I don’t intend to stop until everyone guilty is out of power, and they won’t go quietly.”

Nemas hummed, leaves shifting with the musical sound, “Very well, I appreciate the warning, unneeded though it might be. The Darkwood has stood here for thousands of years and has survived demonic breaches, Void Incursions, and more mortal wars than can be counted. This won’t be the last.”

Leonard nodded, knowing she spoke the truth. He wasn’t arrogant enough to think he could bring eternal peace to Haylich, but he’d do his best to make it last as long as possible.

Without saying goodbye, as was her custom, the dryad slipped back into the tree, her form merging seamlessly with the ebony bark. The clearing seemed to shimmer momentarily as if the air was responding to her departure, and then the forest was silent once more.

Leonard took a deep breath, savoring the ancient magic of the place, before turning and continuing on his journey. The forest seemed to part before him, guiding him with an unseen hand as he ran through the Darkwood. He had one last stop before he could leave the forest.

The miles passed swiftly under his feet, the familiar terrain of the Darkwood blurring as he moved with the agility and speed of a Master ranger. The forest was dense, the light barely penetrating the thick canopy above, casting a shadowy gloom over everything.

Still, Leonard was attuned to the rhythms of the forest, noticing how the birds quieted as he passed. The only sounds were the whispers of the leaves and the occasional distant howl of a wolf.

Eventually, Leonard slowed as he sensed a nearby presence, a familiar one. He focused on it, following a creek upstream until he reached a small lake. There, a group of orcs rested after a successful hunt, busily cleaning the carcass of a massive owlbear.

The green-skinned warriors skillfully prepared the animal, dressing the carcass in less than five minutes. Leonard observed from a distance, not wanting to startle them. He recognized the eldest among them, an orc chieftain named Grakkor, whom he had fought alongside during the Void Incursion. He was taller than the others by a half foot, and his enchanted leather armor barely contained his bulging muscles. Carved bones of various animals decorated his braided beard in the fashion of his people.

To announce his presence, Leonard pulsed the Light in an almost imperceptible pattern, known only to those who had served with him. Luckily, Grakkor seemed to notice. He paused, his brow furrowed as if trying to recall a distant memory. Then, recognition dawned on his face, and he murmured to the others that he needed to relieve himself.

Grakkor left the lake, walking towards Leonard, who erected a subtle barrier to contain their conversation as he came closer. Emerging from the forest, Leonard smiled broadly as the eight-foot-tall warrior approached.

“Leonard!” Grakkor boomed, his deep voice resonating with genuine delight. The two clasped forearms and smacked each other on the back with brotherly affection. The orc’s smile was wide, his tusks gleaming as he looked at his old comrade.

“Grakkor,” Leonard replied warmly, grinning at the imposing figure before him. “I see you’re still in fighting shape.”

The orc laughed, his voice a deep rumble that echoed against the barrier. “And you’re still wandering the woods like a lost puppy,” he teased. The two warriors exchanged another friendly smack on the shoulder before Leonard's expression grew more serious.

“Unfortunately, I’m here on business.” He said, and Grakkor’s expression furrowed.

Chapter 31 - Is It Breaking And Entering If You Only Enter? - Leonard 16

Watching the massive orc, a war chief at that, do his best not to cry upon hearing the news of Belinda's death made something in Leonard’s heart unclench. His fiancée had been a fantastic woman, caring and beautiful, but her greatest quality had always been her incredible grit, something the orcs appreciated more than anyone else.

Being an Expert ranger, she had been tasked with exploring the Darkwood to find the void’s presence and had encountered several orc tribes. Each of them had come to respect her.

“You have given me terrible news, my friend,” Grakkor finally composed himself, though his eyes were still suspiciously lucid. “I imagine you’ve already killed the one responsible?”

Leonard sighed. If only it were that straightforward.

“Unfortunately, whoever gave the order has obfuscated their steps enough that finding them is impossible.” Seeing anger in Grakkor’s eyes, he continued, “That left me with only one option: war.”

A deep rumble echoed through the clearing, “I see you haven’t gone soft, then. Good. The death of your woman should be repaid in blood. Have you come to request my aid?”

As much as Leonard would have liked for Grakkor and his tribe to join him - they were all Expert warriors apart from the old chief himself, who was a Master and would no doubt contribute greatly to the campaign - he knew their customs and didn’t have the weeks necessary to go through the preparations with them.

That was why the orcs hadn’t officially joined hands with the Royal Army during the Incursion. Even then, they demanded that anyone seeking to fight alongside them prove themselves through various challenges and were unwilling to compromise.

“I’d love to participate in the trials sometime soon, but I’m only here today to warn you that war might be coming to the Darkwood. I’m not going to stop until I’ve found Belinda’s murderer and cleaned up Haylich of the filth that clogs it.” Leonard eventually replied.

Grakkor hummed, crossing his meaty arms, “I see. Thank you for the warning, friend. I wish you a good hunt. When you come for us, I’ll prepare the trials in advance.”

That was as far as he could push his authority without incurring in mutiny. Leonard sincerely appreciated it.

The two then clasped each other’s right arm, slapped each other’s backs, and parted ways. Neither was a man of many words, and until the moment the orcs joined the revolution, Grakkor wouldn’t waste time discussing human politics.

With his conversation with Grakkor finished, Leonard resumed his journey, leaving the orc territory and heading north. The dense, verdant forest gradually thinned as he moved away from the heart of the Darkwood. As the day shifted towards afternoon, he found himself in the northern reaches of the forest, where the underbrush was less cumbersome.

Leonard slowed his pace to a reasonable speed as he entered a region where human presence was finally visible and logging efforts were in full swing. The nearby towns had been attempting to exploit the forest's resources for centuries, but the Darkwood was resilient. Its ability to regenerate quickly meant that any significant damage was short-lived. Moreover, the forest’s denizens did not tolerate reckless exploitation and responded swiftly and fiercely to any attempts to harm their domain.

The few guards stationed around the logging stations would barely be enough to stop a stone boar, much less an angry dryad, but Leonard supposed it was the best available. Everyone was still reeling from the incursion, and all available hands were being used in the fields to squeeze as much harvest as possible before winter came in a few months.

Leaving the forest behind, Leonard finally reached the main road, also known as the Green Belt, connecting Hassel, the regional capital, to the towns on the edges of the Darkwood in the west where the Green Sea began and Volten, the largest regional port town on that coast, sat.

Soon enough, he reached a tall hill where he could see the city in the distance. And a city it was. With massive, stout stone walls that had endured the Void’s attacks for months without faltering. Hassel, with a population of a hundred thousand, was the commerce center of the entire Duchy.

Treon in the west certainly received more international merchants, sitting on the Great Slitherer’s delta, but Hassel was where the rest of the kingdom stopped. Rarely did anyone go further south, and even then, it was only if they wanted to make their way to Garva in the west via land.

Leonard surveyed the landscape before him from his vantage point on the hill. The bustling city lay in the distance, a hive of activity surrounded by sprawling fields that stretched as far as the eye could see. He could see people moving about like ants, going about their daily lives in blissful ignorance of the storm brewing just beyond their sight.

Still, Hassel was not his goal. Leonard took another moment to passively scan the area with his senses, making sure that no surprise elite was biding their time and was satisfied when he didn’t find any.

With a determined set to his jaw, he turned away and began making his way along the Green Belt that led to the capital. The road twisted and turned through the rich lowlands of the capital region, passing through fields heavy with crops and dotted with small villages and farmsteads. As he traveled, Leonard noticed with increasing discomfort the large number of slaves working in the fields, many of whom looked like they were native to Hetnia.

The sight filled him with a familiar anger. These people, likely refugees from the Incursion, had been forced into slavery by the very nobles who should have protected them. Their faces were gaunt and lined with exhaustion, their bodies emaciated and bruised from the harsh treatment they received. They labored under the sun, planting and caring for crops with the slow, mechanical movements of those who had lost all hope.

Leonard profoundly despised the people responsible for this atrocity, more than he had thought possible. The noble class turned a blind eye to the suffering of their people, exploiting them for their gain while living in luxury. He clenched his fists, his heart aching for the slaves who toiled in the fields, but he forced himself to continue on his path. As much as he wanted to free them now, he knew that anything he could do alone would be paltry compared to what he could achieve with an army at his side.

He moved through the countryside, his keen eyes taking in the state of the land and its people. The fields were fertile, but the workers' conditions were appalling. Slaves were dressed in ragged clothes, their bodies dirty and covered in sores. They worked under the watchful eyes of overseers, who carried whips and shouted orders, their faces twisted with cruelty and disdain.

I will free you. It might take a while to get here with an army, but I will come. Survive another day, struggle just a little more. Justice is coming.

Leonard's disgust grew with each step he took. He had witnessed enough suffering during the Incursion to last a lifetime, and seeing people treated like animals only fueled his resolve.

It struck him again how easily the nobility could have countered his revolution. The population would have stayed loyal had they simply taken care of their people and fulfilled their oaths. Instead, they were now ripe for someone like him, a dangerous revolutionary with otherworldly ideals, to take them.

Grakkor had asked him if he would take his revenge, and that was certainly part of it, but Leonard couldn’t ignore the small voice he had suppressed for too long that screamed what he was seeing was an abomination. That demanded he bring the system allowing it down, with fire and brimstone if necessary.

Already, the sight of so many freed slaves in Thelma and Alpar had lightened the burden on his heart, but it also showed that it was possible for things to change. It made it all the harder to keep walking.

That was the biggest point of contention he had with his friends. They all thought the world was a cold, unforgiving place where the strong would always oppress the weak and that going against the flow would only lead to more suffering. It was the same excuse he had repeated to himself once he realized how the place he had been summoned operated.

But what happened if someone even stronger than the oppressor came along? The power of choice would be theirs, and Leonard fully intended to change things radically. No more excuses.

Night fell, but he continued his journey. Rather than slowing down, now that fewer people were on the road, Leonard accelerated. He intended to reach Mellassoria before dawn, which meant not stopping to rest. Luckily, his constitution meant he could go without sleeping and not even feel it. He still did, most of the time, just to feel human. But he didn’t need to, and ever since the revolution started, he hadn’t bothered with the pretense.

As he neared the Heartlands, Leonard noticed more activity along the road. Where closer to Hetnia, caravans had rested just a stone's throw away from the road; they now quartered in inns and taverns. Lights and revelry were everywhere, and more than once, he was forced to slow down to avoid suspicion. Dozens of towns littered the way to Mellassoria, each ignorant of his passing.

After running for a day and a night, Leonard finally reached his destination. The capital was a massive city, more than ten times the size of Hassel. Gleaming white walls, enchanted with permanent wards meticulously kept by the Whiteguard, protected it from any assault.

Even before dawn, a line was forming of people waiting for the gates to open.

Great spires reaching for the sky dotted the city. Public baths, arenas, and even parks were held within its walls. Mellassoria was a city of contrasts. The grand architecture and vibrant markets spoke of wealth and prosperity, but Leonard knew behind this facade lay a darker reality. The nobles here were among the most corrupt in the kingdom, and their influence stretched far and wide.

Leonard moved toward the bay, avoiding the gates to bypass the guards and enter the city unnoticed. He reached the shoreline and, without hesitation, jumped into the sea. Swimming below the surface, he kept the aquatic creatures at bay with liberal use of his aura, creating a shield that deterred even the most curious predators, few that there were so close to House Haylich’s seat of power. The water was cool and clear, and Leonard moved swiftly, his powerful strokes propelling him toward the city’s sewers.

He found an opening and climbed into it without hesitation, ignoring the grime and algae as he navigated the labyrinthine tunnels. The sewers were dark and damp, but Leonard moved with purpose, guided by memory and a sixth sense honed during his time exploring the city with his companions.

Eventually, he reached a red sign etched onto a wall, a marker left by his old party to indicate a hidden entrance. Leonard took a moment to cast [Polymorph] upon himself, altering his appearance to resemble an average man, a guise he had used several times before. His luminous green eyes turned a dull brown, and his golden hair lost its luster. His nose widened, taking up more of his face and diverting attention from his features. His chin retracted slightly, and a dimple appeared at its center.

With a little more effort, Leonard became shorter, losing five inches to blend in with the crowds better.

With his new identity in place, he climbed up through the hidden entrance and emerged into the city proper.

Chapter 32 - Daily Vlog of A Young Archmage - Jean Franklin 1

“Here, young Mistress. Lift your arms.” Demetria, her maid for the last year, told her, and Jean complied with only minimal grumbling.

No one could ever accuse her of being a morning person, but she still religiously woke up when the woman rang the bell. Initially, Jean had been too embarrassed to accept the help, but being late to her lessons several times and a few humiliating discussions with the Archmage had made her understand she couldn’t afford to be that spoiled.

Demetria was a matronly woman who had taken her life in hand and turned it into something ordered. Her curly brown hair even reminded Jean of the few memories she had of her mother. She would never admit it out loud, but she had come to enjoy being pampered by her, if only because of the physical contact and care Demetria put into her appearance.

Given her albino heritage, Jean needed to take care of more than just applying makeup. Expensive elven creams, imported from the finest herbalists of Lantea, were applied to her skin, protecting her from the sun’s rays and just about anything short of distilled Void essence. Silverite-framed glasses, inscribed with dozens of runic circles meant to facilitate her mana sight, were placed on her brow, and Jean opened her eyes, as always fighting the urge to frown at the sight that greeted her.

She wouldn’t call herself ugly - not with how much the Archmage spent beautifying her - but she was different. Snow white hair, red eyes, and skin so pale one could mistake her for one of the ghosts that haunted the Death Pass. She was short, too, despite having gained an inch since the end of the Incursion. The physician who checked her over last week had informed them that unless she deliberately went out of her way to buy expensive elixirs, she’d likely stay at her height of five foot two.

Jean had been tempted to do it. She knew the Archmage would have them ready for her within a few days if she only asked. But as always, something held her back. It wasn’t that she feared him, no. She was grateful to Wilbert Helmut, the Archmage of Order, more than she could express. Having been an orphan barely eking out a living by digging through trash, Jean knew how bad things could be and how privileged she now was.

But their relationship was also a very transactional one. Her talent alone had been enough at the beginning. The old man had praised her as she cleared milestone after milestone faster than anyone before in the Tower’s history. With the coming of the Incursion, he had withdrawn his affection, concentrating more on important matters. And when she had finally developed Pure casting, solving one of the greatest problems that plagued modern magic, he had showered her with attention and gifts. He had gone so far as to arrange for her old haunts, the slums at the northern edges of Mellassoria, to be revitalized and built a school in her name for all the orphans to attend.

That, however, had come at the cost of having to participate in the fight personally. She hadn’t wanted to, fearing for her life, but had accepted it in silence.

She had made some amazing friends then and had grown more than she could have imagined possible, reaching heights that forced her to hide most of her mana at all times to avoid causing a mess with the sheer metaphysical weight she carried.

Once Leonard achieved that final victory and the forces of the Void were repelled, she had thought she’d be free, having done her duty.

Instead, the Archmage immediately made her teach a class of noble scions to leverage her popularity. He then requested her presence at balls and feasts in different mansions across the capital. While Jean could skip some events, declining others risked offending the inviting nobles.

And the old man made sure to remind her that she couldn’t afford it. He had never directly threatened her. No, that would be too crass and unnecessary. He knew how to push her buttons. Simply assigning to her Demetria, a woman who looked so much like her mother but was also bound to him with a slave collar, was enough to maintain his hold over her.

And if she was too rebellious and refused to act as entertainment for a noble scion that a simple third-tier spell could wow, he just had to remind her that the orphanage bearing her name would likely not last long without the generous donations those same nobles made.

And so, Jean allowed herself to be dressed in the elaborate clothing befitting her station as an esteemed genius. Her robes were deep indigo, adorned with silver embroidery that swirled in intricate patterns, reminiscent of the mana flows she so adeptly manipulated. She looked at herself in the mirror one last time, sighing softly at the reflection.

“You look wonderful, Mistress,” Demetria assured her, her voice gentle but firm. The maid adjusted the final piece of Jean’s attire, a delicate chain of enchanted silver that rested on her forehead, designed to enhance her concentration during spellcasting. She hadn’t needed anything of the sort for years, but she wanted to keep a low profile, even if that meant wearing expensive jewelry.

“Thank you,” Jean replied, her tone polite but tinged with resignation. She knew Demetria's words were genuine, but they did little to assuage her discomfort.

Jean made her way to the dining area of her chambers, where a small breakfast awaited her. The table was set with vibrant and juicy exotic tropical fruits from beyond Brander. Just the cost of transporting them here would have been enough to feed ten families for a year. Beside them sat a delicate porcelain teapot filled with expensive tea from Eturia. She nibbled on the fruit and sipped the tea mechanically, the enjoyment she once derived from these luxuries long lost, her thoughts already on the day ahead.

Once her meal was finished, Jean left her rooms and headed to the elevator at the end of the corridor. The White Tower of Magic was an imposing structure, its interior filled with all manner of arcane contraptions. The elevator was one such artifact, and Jean sparked it to life with a tiny infusion of mana, stepping inside as the mechanism hummed to life.

The ride down was smooth, the magical device taking her swiftly to the seventeenth floor, where her classroom awaited. The doors opened, and Jean stepped into the wide corridor, her steps echoing softly against the polished stone floor. People of all social strata stopped to greet her, bowing and smiling. She did her best to be polite but didn’t linger, as she feared some of her true thoughts would slip if she stayed longer than the minimum socially permitted.

She approached her only class for the year, her heart heavy with the knowledge that her innovative way of using magic, known as Pure Casting, would be taught only to the privileged scions of nobility. Twenty students, all high-ranking families, sat waiting inside, their attention shifting immediately to her as she entered.

“Good morning, Mistress Jean,” they chorused, their tones a mix of respect and curiosity. The noble children, aged fourteen to sixteen, were dressed in expensive attire. Such wealth being flaunted made her teeth itch.

Jean nodded in response, her eyes sweeping over the group. “Good morning, students,” she replied, her voice even. Magic was something at which she excelled, enabling her to adopt a more confident persona effortlessly.

Just outside the classroom, Demetria sat on a bench, waiting dutifully. As a servant, she was not allowed to learn the secrets of the craft Jean was about to teach, and the sight of her sitting quietly only deepened Jean’s sense of frustration at the injustice of it all.

With a heavy heart, she gently gestured to the door, and it closed immediately. Silencing wards activated, protecting the secrets the parents of the children present had paid a king’s ransom to learn.

"Today, we will discuss the basics of Pure Casting," Jean began, her voice calm and controlled. This much, at least, she could do. She swept her gaze over the twenty pairs of eager eyes, some filled with genuine curiosity, others with the indifference of spoiled nobility.

Pure Casting, the revolutionary technique she had developed, radically changed how magic was used during an Incursion. When the Void threatened to consume all, the very presence of the primordial force would disrupt and destabilize spells, making traditional magic unreliable in the face of such darkness. The only thing that held up was high-level Holy Magic, hence why Heroes and Saints were so well-regarded. However, her discovery had given the kingdom hope that in the future, it would be able to minimize the damages should another Incursion occur without needing to rely on external saviors.

"I spent months exploring the studies of the Archmages of the past," Jean explained, voice steady as she walked among the students, her robes trailing softly behind her. "These great minds had dedicated themselves to discovering why the mere presence of the Void so often disrupted magic.”

The students listened intently, some leaning forward. This was a secret considered a National Treasure, shared with them only because of their status and would elevate them even more should they master it. Jean paused and looked out over them. "The approach of the Archmages was meticulous," she continued. "They sought to understand the specific circumstances under which magic would falter, examining everything from the changes in ambient mana to the caster's state of mind, searching for patterns.”

She let her eyes linger on each student, making sure they understood the gravity of what she was saying. "What I realized, however, was that while their work was incredibly detailed, it was ultimately flawed. They were focused on the specific circumstances, on countering the Void, while I decided to focus on the essence of using magic itself.”

Jean moved to the front of the classroom, where a large blackboard displayed several complex magical formulas. "Many of the greats before me had minor success with encasing their spells in powerful protections," she said, pointing to a series of symbols representing such methods. "However, their prohibitive cost made them unfeasible for widespread use.”

She turned back to her students, her red eyes gleaming with passion for her craft. "What I found that was so revolutionary was that spells, which at their core, incorporate the true essence of an element, can withstand the Void much better than anything else. It is the purity of understanding that makes an element impervious."

The students nodded, some scribbling down furiously. Others simply watched her, trying not to miss anything. Jean doubted any of them understood what she was talking about.

"Take fire, for example," Jean said, holding out her hand. A small flame flickered into existence, bright and warm. "The Void would disrupt a traditional fire spell because it relies on the combustion of the air. But if the mana itself is formed into fire before being unleashed, it becomes resistant to the influence of the Void.”

She let the flame dance in her hand, the warmth spreading through the room. "This difference, in essence, is the key to Pure Casting. By producing an element from mana, and not as a consequence of a process, you can protect it from outside influences. It is a skill that initially takes some time to develop and could even be considered unnecessary by some. Still, its use in contrasting corrupting forces like the Void is unmistakable.”

The students' eyes widened with understanding; her explanation's simplicity belied the concept's complexity. It had taken the Royal Mages months to incorporate the method thoroughly. It would take the children much longer. "Of course, it's not just about knowing the method," Jean cautioned. "You must feel the fire, become one with it. Pure Casting requires a deep connection with the elements, a harmony that cannot be faked.”

Jean moved to the blackboard gracefully and sketched out the formula for a basic Pure Fire spell. "This," she said, pointing to the completed hexagram, "is where you begin. Practice this until you can summon a flame that burns true, even in the face of the Void. You’ve all been granted access to the Tower’s reserves, where a drop of minor Void essence can be requisitioned for practice. Only then will you understand the essence of Pure Casting.”

Practice afterward was as dull as she expected, and while a few students exhibited some talent, they weren’t worth wasting time over, in her opinion.

After the lesson ended and the students filed out, Jean was finally left alone in the classroom. She sighed, placing her head in her hands.

The moment of quiet was soon interrupted. The door opened, and she turned, expecting to see Demetria, but was instead faced with someone else.

Chapter 33 - Old Friends, New Problems - Jean Franklin 2

Jean was confused for a second before her brain caught up with what her eyes were showing. The man before her was painfully average, so much so that he would have been impossible to spot in a crowd.

She, however, would never forget that face since she had helped build it. “Leonard?!” A strangled whisper came out, even as she struggled to process.

The man who had somehow infiltrated the Tower without tripping the extensive wards meant to keep outsiders away and slipped past her observant maid smiled in affirmation, “Indeed, though I’d appreciate it if you could keep quiet about that. Fighting my way out of here would result in a regrettable amount of deaths.”

Now sure of his identity, Jean launched herself at him, colliding with his powerful chest. She was immediately enveloped in his strong arms, a familiar embrace that brought a sense of comfort she had missed more than she realized.

“Idiot!” She hissed, though there was a watery quality to it, “It’s too dangerous for you to come here! The Court has been in a frenzy since news broke that you rebelled.”

Her first true friend chuckled, the sound like honey to her ears, “I’m surprised they let it be known, given the loss of face. But then again, they need to lay the groundwork to turn the people against me, so I should have expected it.”

Jean breathed in, wrinkling her nose when it was assaulted by a musty smell, and pushed away.

“Ah, I did my best not to be touched by the sewer waters, but some of the air passed through.” He said upon seeing her expression.

Shaking her head, Jean refocused, “That’s not important. We need to hide you before anyone realizes you shouldn’t be here! And Demetria! She will report this to the Archmage, it’s in her standing orders.”

Before she could work herself into a frenzy, Leonard gently grasped her hands, halting their frantic motion. “It’s fine; your maid has suddenly remembered she needed to check the state of your wardrobe and will be occupied with that vital task for a few hours before the compulsion fades away. And for someone realizing I don’t belong, I sincerely doubt that will be the case. People here put entirely too much trust in the wards, and they are stuck so far up their asses they’ll think me another commoner student before thinking I’m an outsider.”

There was some truth in his words. Jean didn’t like that he had laid a compulsion on Demetria, but the woman would have been forced to report anything to her owner, no matter how much she would have wished not to. This was an efficient solution.

Sighing, she allowed her shoulders to sag. “Alright, you are not in danger, but this classroom will be used soon enough, and people will think it’s weird if they see me talking to you.” She never stopped to talk to students unless they made an appointment. It was something she had been insistent upon. Outside the lessons, she wasn’t to be bothered. Starting to flaunt that rule now would only make people very curious.

Luckily, Leonard agreed without putting up a fuss, “Alright, then go back to your office, and I’ll join you there. It’s better if we walk separately. And I can slip through the wards, don’t worry about it.” He added preemptively.

With that, as quickly as he had appeared, he left, leaving Jean in stunned silence. It took her a few seconds to regain her composure, and she had to pinch her arm to make sure she wasn’t in some weird dream.

Peering out of the classroom, she saw that Demetria was indeed absent - something that never happened before - and since the coast was clear, she left, hurrying to take the elevator before someone saw her.

Not that I’m doing anything wrong. I’m just walking to my office. Where a dangerous fugitive is waiting for me. To discuss illicit things. Ok, maybe I’m doing something wrong.

Still, a part of her delighted in the naughtiness of it all. Jean ruthlessly squashed it. She wasn’t a pampered noble lady having a secret fling with a dashing knight. She had stared death in the maw dozens of times before turning ten.

By the time she reached her office, she had gotten herself under control. Out of an abundance of caution, she cast a quick [Clairomancy]. Her senses expanded drastically, though she kept them contained to the Tower. The feel of boots scraping on smooth stone, the taste of enchanted hardwood, the smell of a leftover sandwich, the sight of servants prepping the classrooms for the coming class.

Coming back to herself, Jean dismissed her spell, satisfied that nothing would interrupt them.

She entered her office, unsurprised to find Leonard already there, reading one of her half-finished papers. He was still wearing his disguise, and though she was tempted to ask him to dismiss it, she refrained, knowing it was a stupid risk.

“I see that you’ve kept working on your Unifying Theory. You’ve come a long way from those first experiments.” He finally said once she had shut the door and raised the privacy wards. Here in the Tower, they were all centrally powered and only required a spark to start up. No one would bat an eye at their activation.

“You certainly gave me a lot to think about with your talk of infinitesimally small particles. I spent months working out a way to observe them, and from there, it was just a matter of putting everything together. I’m still working on refining the experiments to record how magic and matter interact at that level, but I’m making good time.” She replied, proud of herself. If there was one thing Jean didn’t mind discussing, it was her efforts to explore the depths of what was possible with magic. Better yet if she had an interlocutor who could follow what she was saying.

Leonard waved a hand airily, dismissing his contributions, “I only set you on the right path. You were already getting there with your observations about the permanence of certain spells coming from transmutation rather than transfiguration.”

Jean circled the desk and snatched the paper from his hands, checking to ensure it hadn’t wrinkled. Once satisfied, she sat down in her chair.

“Have you shared it with anyone else yet?” He asked curiously, taking his own seat on the opposite side.

“I have talked about the underlying principles with the Archmage, and he seemed interested enough when I explained there could be great strides in casting efficiency, but I’ll need to have the practical side worked out before I can publish it. At least I was able to secure some funding.” Jean wouldn’t say she was satisfied with how much interest she had gathered, but she hadn’t expected anything else. The Archmage was very busy, and he could spare little time to research while serving as Advisor to the king on magical matters and having to preside over the Tower.

“He’s like that, huh?” Leonard asked, and while she pursed her lips, she couldn’t reject his words. Wilbert Helmut was the Archmage of Order, a title he had gained through personal talent and, arguably more importantly, political support. He was always very aware of how he looked and how his actions would impact his image. It wasn’t necessarily bad, but Jean was a magical researcher at heart, and some part of her couldn’t help but disparage that behavior slightly.

“Speaking of politics-” She said, putting the paper away, “I know you couldn’t have rebelled without a reason, and you certainly don’t seem insane to me. Absurd rumors have swirled around the noble circles lately, but I’ve not paid them heed. Could you explain what really happened?”

Jean leaned forward, propped by her elbows, and peered at Leonard. She had barely been able to stop herself from snapping angrily back at the first scion that told her the Hero had debased himself and killed his fiancee, but she was still curious as to what had been the real cause behind the “rebellion”.

Leonard sighed, and she knew him well enough to spy a flash of deep, terrible sadness before he hid it away. “Someone in the Capital tampered with my mail. They managed to slip Void’s Dew into the tea I regularly get from here, and it killed Belinda before I could save her.” He eventually said, sounding like the words pained him physically to say.

Jean breathed in deeply. Despite being a member of the Heroic Party, she hadn’t gotten to know the ranger much, but she still respected her and knew how much Leonard cared for her. To see her die because of the very poison he had been summoned to fight… “It must have been someone in the Royal Court. No one else would have access to such a restricted substance. We barely have a few drops for study purposes, and even then, we have the Whiteguard observing every step.” She murmured.

Suddenly, everything made sense. She knew just how much Leonard disliked the current system of power, how the aristocracy would lord their wealth over the masses, and how slaves would toil their lives away. It had been the subject of much discussion among party members during the long nights spent on the campaign. “It was the last drop, wasn’t it? You couldn’t bear it anymore.”

The Hero of the Light was, for all his strength, a deeply compassionate man. More than anyone Jean had ever met. This country, this world had a way of burning away that kind of innocence with prejudice. She had seen people starve to death because they shared the last of their bread, and villains get away scot-free thanks to their strength or backing. It was just how things were.

Leonard had never truly accepted that. He had agreed to the necessity of fighting the Void first, as it was much more urgent, but he had always talked about how, while his world was not perfect, it was a much more equal place.

“Right on the money,” He confirmed with a half smile. “Make no mistake, I will get my revenge for Belinda’s death. But if that was all I wanted, I could stroll into the Royal Palace within a few minutes and turn it into a smoking crater. That would take care of it. But I want more. I want to free the slaves. I want to protect people from something like that happening again. And for that, I need a much bigger operation. I need a revolution.”

There was a fire in his eyes that the glamour he wore did nothing to stem. It had been so long since she had seen him so determined that Jean was struck speechless. Leonard genuinely believed that he could do it. That he could upend millennia of cruelty and practice just because he thought it was the right thing to do.

“That… If you can achieve that, it’d be amazing. But the sheer amount of death needed…” Jean was no idealistic child. She knew what a revolution meant. Innocents would die just as much, if not more, as the guilty. Chaos would follow. Leonard’s sheer power would help, but it couldn’t change the nature of a revolution.

“Some things are worth it. Even if it will take a long time. Even if many will die. Freedom for future generations is worth it. And we both know the nobles will never allow change to come about naturally.” He replied, and Jean had nothing to say to that. Things could be different in a world where power was more evenly spread. But here, the accumulation of secrets and magical knowledge meant the nobility was too dug in.

“Why are you here?” Jean finally asked, the words coming out without her say so. “Why not Bernard or William? They certainly would be better than me in a war.”

Leonard smiled. “They are both too entrenched in the current system. And we both know you are much more capable than what you allow people to believe. I’ve seen you sling fourth tier spells around like they were cantrips. And I know your heart. You’ll do the right thing.” With that, he stood up, not allowing her to reject his words. “I hope you’ll join me, Jean. I’d love to fight alongside you for a better future.”

By the time she had calmed her heart rate enough to hear anything over its pounding, Leonard was long gone. And Jean knew, despite herself, that she would leave too.

Chapter 34 - To Lay In Wait - Leonard 17

In the end, it had taken them two weeks to move out of Thelma. It was longer than Leonard would have liked, but once they started processing the recruits, moving them before basic training was over wasn’t efficient, and splitting up the army at this juncture would only create problems down the line.

Luckily, Amelia’s efforts at stymieing the enemy were working wonderfully. Slothful, arrogant nobles in both Treon and Hassel, who opposed moving out in force, suddenly found themselves having allies left and right. Shipments of much-needed supplies were lost on the way, necessitating reviews of the chain of command and even longer waits.

It wouldn’t work forever, as Count Pollus in Hassel and General Locke in Treon were both capable enough to pull through, but it would take them much more effort than either would have liked and by then, Leonard hoped to be at Treon’s gates.

Observing the marching lines of men, he felt the delay was worth it. The army now numbered little over two thousand five hundred men, enough that Leonard didn’t feel they’d die the moment he turned his gaze away.

The biggest surprise of their stay in Thelma was the success of the mage corps. When Leonard had left for Mellassoria, there had been a couple dozen Apprentices volunteering for the job, and he had hoped he’d return to find at least a couple of Journeymen to lead them. Even stuck at the first and second tier, mages could be useful to a moving army.

They made logistics much easier, preserving the supplies without the need for expensive artifacts, and set camp for the whole army within a few minutes.

They wouldn’t be of much use in a dogfight as they were now, but they’d be strong enough to participate in the storming of the walls, and hopefully, they’d get enough experience to be better the next time.

Upon returning from his little journey, he had found a hundred mages, all at Journeyman tier, led by a single Expert.

Having examined the forces available to Thelma before attacking, Leonard had been rightfully confused at this development. Happy, of course, but very confused.

Luckily, Amelia was there to solve the mystery. Yes, Thelma’s Tower officially only had a dozen second tier mages, most of whom had died during the fighting or shortly before it, and double that in Apprentices. But they also had a number of refugees. Not as many as Alpar, but apparently, De Hoop had accepted some. Why? Well, because they could be useful, of course.

Among the many destroyed towns on the eastern coast and hidden in the safer parts of the Darkwood was a Magic Tower. The Archmage who presided over it had died years before, fighting to the last against the Void, but he had the good sense to send away his students.

Some, the more experienced and better-connected ones, had left the duchy altogether or joined the fight to avenge their teacher. Others, those weak enough that they would have been useless against the Voidlings’ magical resistance, had tried to find a new home.

Thelma was the chosen destination of many since their nominal leader, an Expert-tier professor by the name of Alphard White, had a connection with the local Tower master’s nephew.

Saying that Thelma had a Magic Tower was a stretch since it was barely taller than the walls and protected only by the most meager wards. The “master” was the old mage Leonard had observed raising the wards over the town, and beyond being barely competent enough to teach apprentices, he was also an arrogant bastard.

The wrinkly old goat had rejected the refugees out of hand, not caring about friendships or anything of that sort. When he had found out that Alphard White was an Expert, he had gone as far as to force the newly arrived mages to linger in the slums and kept them from meeting with the local nobility, afraid they’d try to usurp his position.

That was what had held them back from being recruited at gunpoint by De Hoop and what saved many a life from being pitted against the Revolutionary Army.

After such a harrowing experience, the young mages were full of resentment toward the local leadership. And they were not that broken up about the change that Leonard and his people brought along. After hearing about the rates they would be paid if they joined the army, they all crowded the barracks, clamoring to join up.

Once Amelia found out what was happening, she visited the man who had led them through the Void’s forces to safety. She found Alphard White to be a mildly boring, if decently talented researcher who had only needed some prodding to accept the position of Captain of the 1st Mage Corp.

“Still thinking about the mages?” Oliver asked from his side. His squire was wearing his full armor and rode a purebred stallion, tall enough that the boy would have needed help getting on it if not for his significant physical strength.

Leonard smiled briefly, amused that the boy was coming to know him so well, “Yes, I’m very happy that we managed to make an official Corp out of the few we brought with us and the new ones found here. But even though Amelia assured me she put them through the paces, I’ll keep worrying until I’ve seen them in action.”

“Well, I can tell you that they can cast a mean [Fireball], and their shields are strong enough to resist an entire barrage from a squad of riflemen without a single crack. That impressed everyone.” Oliver replied, scratching at the back of his head. His red hair was growing, though it wasn’t time to cut it yet. “Frankly, I’m pretty sure you won’t find anyone with reservations about fighting with them. We had some drills where we stormed a position with and without their protection, and it was infinitely easier to do it with them watching our backs.”

That didn’t surprise Leonard one whit. He was sure his old world’s soldiers would have liked to have magical barriers protecting them from the storm of bullets coming their way, too.

Not that the local artillery was comparable to modern Earth’s firearms, but they were undoubtedly better than what the general technology level should allow. Magic was an excellent equalizer.

A company of Haylich riflemen could output about a hundred shots each over the course of an engagement, but they weren’t tied down by the need of resupplying like mundane ones would be and could go on for long times with only minimal support for food and medicines. Alchemy worked wonders there, too, allowing several days’ caloric intake to be packed down in flasks. A single sip was the equivalent of a meal, and while no one preferred it over real food, it was a valid alternative if separating from the main force became necessary.

Not that Leonard intended things to devolve that much, but it always paid to be prepared for every possibility. He’d not have his men starve to death if they became stranded.

I guess we’ll have to see how they perform. Amelia will keep an eye on their loyalty and ensure it becomes more than just opportunism. If my expectations aren’t far off the mark, Jean will join us soon enough, and they’ll have another reason to stay. Learning from a Champion Mage is not something the average caster can ever hope for.

The Serpent Road from Thelma to Lamprey Port, their next target, was empty. Few boats dared to brave the seas, and those that did were far in the distance. Word of Thelma’s fall had spread, and Leonard expected they’d find a much harder nut to crack at their arrival. He still believed taking the time to build up the army was the right decision, but he couldn’t ignore the significance of giving his enemies several days, if not weeks, to prepare.

Of course, if it became necessary, he was more than enough to deal with any defenses Lamprey Port might have cooked up. Leonard would still prefer it if his army could do the bulk of the fighting, but he wasn’t naive enough to believe a few weeks of training would be enough to turn them into an invincible armada, no matter how many potions Lia forced down every soldier’s gullet.

Those potions have been working, though. Even from here, I can tell that men are much stronger than before taking Thelma. Back then they had grit and a couple of Skills, and given how badly De Hoop mismanaged the whole affair, it was enough, but against a town like Lamprey Port, which has a real Magic Tower and a Navy detachment, beyond the two Army Corps stationed there permanently, it wouldn’t be enough.

Fortunately, the [Nightstalkers] Amelia had sent ahead to scout hadn’t reported any powerhouses hiding, and this time, they had been ordered to be thorough in their search. The worst they’d have to contend with was a prepared cabal of mages and all the artillery the local forces could pull together, which was likely to be significant.

Now that Leonard thought of it, having the 1st Mage Corp would be very handy.

“Do you think we might be able to force them to surrender, given that we already won two towns?” Oliver abruptly asked, fiddling with his reins.

Leonard turned to his squire and really looked at him. The boy - and he was still a boy, despite having spilled much blood - had filled up, his body growing rapidly in response to all the stimuli it went through. But in his eyes, Leonard could spy hesitance. Not that he believed Oliver would not do his part when it came to it, but the world had still not managed to sand away all his soft spots.

He likely had seen many unnecessary deaths during the Storming of Thelma and knew that it would be much worse if they were forced to attack a prepared Lamprey Port.

After a long moment of silence, in which Leonard looked wistfully at the sea, he answered, “I do not think they’ll give up that easily. Rather, it’s more likely our earlier victories will make them turtle down. I don’t know exactly how much they learned since we kept a tight lock on information, but I have no doubt the local commanders will have some idea of Thelma’s defenses and what it takes to overwhelm them.”

Oliver shook his head, lips pursed, “That’s not what I meant. I was asking if you might be able to convince them somehow. Negotiate their surrender.”

Leonard let out a chuckle at that. He thought himself a decent public speaker, especially when he could prop himself up using the Light, but his squire had much higher expectations of him. “I’ll try to talk to them, of course. Anything that can prevent innocents from dying is good in my books, but these people are different from the citizens of Alpar and Thelma. Sure, they suffered from the Incursion, too, but they are far away from the worst. The refugees they accepted are minimal in number, and even then, they’d likely have enough supplies from being a Navy base that they didn’t go hungry to feed them. It’s a different situation altogether.”

Trying to explain how differently even people in the same Duchy had lived the Incursion was challenging, especially to someone who lost almost everything like Oliver. His father had died to grant the rest of the family time to run, and all their possessions had been lost to the Void.

People in Lamprey Port had to pay more taxes, and their garrison occasionally participated in raids to push back the encroaching Incursion, but by the time it was coming closer, Leonard had already arrived in Hassel and had begun pushing back, attracting the brunt of the enemy forces to himself.

“I have no doubt some people would join us in a heartbeat. The slaves, mostly, but the lower class suffered much, too. But the overall population is not on the brink like Alpar’s was. They will join up once we win and show them how much better things can be, but they will have to be dragged along.” He concluded.

The material conditions for a spontaneous revolution might not exist in Lamprey Port, but Leonard didn’t mind a challenge. It’d help forge his army into something truly fearsome.

Chapter 35 - Dreams And Actions - David Longs 1

David jolted awake, his heart pounding, threatening to burst. His body quivered with fear as the last vestiges of the dream faded, a familiar sensation that had become a part of his nightly routine.

Getting himself under control took him a few minutes, and he was extremely thankful that his new apprenticeship under Rafael Toro, the Blazing Torch, had granted him personal quarters in the Tower district.

His old roommates, indifferent to his nightmares, were often irritated when he disturbed their sleep. Being able to take some time to calm himself in the morning without the fear of disturbing others was a true blessing.

Having regained his breath, David took a moment to steady his footing, careful not to fall since his limbs still occasionally shook, and got to the kitchenette, where a spark of magic was enough to activate the boiler.

As he prepared his morning tea, memories of his mother flooded his mind. She was always the first one up, ensuring a hearty breakfast was ready for the family. His last letter, filled with excitement about his new apprenticeship, was his way of reassuring her. He knew she would worry if she sensed even a hint of hesitance in his words.

He hadn’t seen her in two years, not since he left Mondos in the northeast of Hetnia, but his continued success in his chosen career was a source of pride for the entire family.

Despite the hefty price his family had to pay for his acceptance at Lamprey Port’s magic tower, even with Mage Thorn’s recommendation, David was determined to give his best. He felt a deep sense of responsibility and gratitude, which fueled his dedication.

Still, he had been careful to omit anything about his current condition. His master had noticed and prescribed him a tincture to sleep dreamlessly, but it hadn’t done much.

David was almost sure it was because what woke him up so abruptly wasn’t just nightmares. Ever since getting his first Blessing, he had seen flashes and, at times, longer scenes in his dreams that would regularly play out in his life at a later time. He had no idea prior to their coming whether that was on the same day or a year later, but he had never been wrong yet.

Prophecy was an esoteric and coveted power. It was usually thought to belong to High Priests and Paladins who had mastered Holy Magic. Still, the Tower’s library contained reports of Druids and even regular mages who specialized in divinations receiving some.

David didn’t know why his were so violent or why they happened without his input, but they had never steered him wrong, and if being successful meant not getting enough sleep and depending on reinvigorating draughts, he’d pay the fee every time.

It was how he had managed to snag his apprenticeship, after all. He wasn’t a monstrously talented mage like Kieara, nor had he the connections in high society Victor had. But David had known the Blazing Torch would be looking for an apprentice in Lamprey Port a month before the man arrived and had diligently practiced his fire magic until the tips of his fingers were severely burned every day.

The man believed him to be a great talent in his preferred field, and David would do his best to uphold that image as long as possible. Learning under an Expert wasn’t something that happened often to Apprentices, especially not ones from the boonies like him.

This last vision, however, had repeated insistently for the previous month. The sight of the town walls bursting into a shower of debris. Invisible figures marching through the breach. A flash of steel.

Usually, visions only came to him more than once if he hadn’t done enough to change them. But no matter how much he trained. No matter his deliberate decision to always be far from the gates, he always found himself there when something attacked.

And wasn’t that frightening? Never before had anything escaped his prophetic power. Sometimes, things were messy enough that he couldn’t understand everything, but all elements were always there. This time, it was as if something was blocking his gaze.

It had never happened before, and it scared him. He couldn’t prepare if he didn’t know what was coming.

Of course, in the following weeks, he had learned the likely cause. The Hero of the Light had gone mad. A man so powerful he had personally led Haylich’s forces in the fight against the Void, rumored to have reached heights only the most powerful in the kingdom’s history had touched. And he had decided to throw it all away.

Now, David wasn’t naive enough to believe all the trash the criers yelled on the streets. Rather than the man deciding one day to kill his fiancee and declare total war on his country, it was more likely that he had been preparing something of the sort for a while and had finally found a good excuse. At least, that was what his master believed, and David was inclined to agree. Still, the consequences were the same. In a lighting blitz, the rebel forces had conquered Alpar and Thelma, defeating and assimilating the local garrisons.

There were whispers that he had been setting the slaves free as well, which David doubted was coming from the goodness of the man’s heart. Rather, he needed warm bodies to fight, and slaves didn’t need much convincing to join up with their freedom on the line.

Still, in the subsequent week after the news of Thelma’s fall had arrived, no attack had come. Thanks to his new position, David had been privy to a few meetings among the Tower’s top mages. Everyone agreed that the Hero was consolidating his army and desperately training them to achieve some sort of competence since he couldn’t count on surprising his enemies again.

The best mages of Lamprey Port all agreed that an attack was likely in the coming days, but also that they’d face a ragtag army completely dependent on the Hero to fight any powerhouses.

While that was a viable strategy against smaller towns like Thelma, which apparently only had a couple of solid fighters, it wouldn’t work with them.

But if that’s true, why do I keep seeing them breaching the walls in my dreams?

Without the visions, David would have been reassured of the town’s ability to defend itself. With the Navy detachment and the two garrisons residing within, Lamprey Port was a tough nut to crack, and even pirates from Hammerfest knew better than to try their luck here. There hadn't been a significant challenge to its defenses for almost a century since the time the mermish Pirate King Blob the Horrible was defeated.

The Hero would no doubt be able to kill many by himself. But one man would never win an entire battle by himself. That only happened in legends. It was just common sense.

And yet, David continued to see his demise.

Being Lord Toro’s apprentice, he would be required to stand alongside his master in case the man was needed to defend the town.

It was considered a safe position, as they’d be powering the wards while the riflemen and cannoneers eliminated the enemies safely.

David was sure it would not go as planned. He had tried to express his worry to his master, but the man had dismissed him with a few words, apparently not that worried.

The Blazing Torch had fought against the Incursion, so he should know how strong the Hero was. If he believed their defenses would be enough, David couldn’t say anything to convince him otherwise.

As the light of the dawn finally peeked out of his curtains, he set down his cup and finished dressing for the day. No matter his worries, he still needed to attend classes and see his master. He had long since promised himself he’d not allow his visions to get in the way of his career, and this wasn’t any different.

The Tower jutted above the surrounding buildings enough to be visible even from the Darkwood. It was the first thing David had seen of Lamprey Port, and to this day, it always made his heart skip a beat whenever he laid his eyes on it.

This was a real Magic Tower. Not the pale imitation of the surrounding towns, where squat buildings housed a dozen Apprentices and called themselves Towers because no one else cared to correct them.

There was a Master here, leading hundreds of mages to greater heights. Lamprey Port had been nothing but a fishing village when Eloise The Silver Wind had decided to set roots here and built the Tower with her magic, and now it served as the center of all things magical in southeast Hetnia. More, since the Void had scoured the eastern towns from the coast. Only Hassel and Treon had more apprentices, mostly due to their political importance, while Volten was its equal.

The Tower was built of shimmering, crystalline white stone, with thousands of runic circles carved on its surface. Some gave it stability, protecting it from anything from harsh winter winds to cannon fire, while others were more esoteric, said to enhance the learning abilities of all who studied within.

David didn’t know if that was true, but he always relaxed whenever he stepped inside.

Today, he was scheduled to attend a transfiguration class taught by Lord Eldric, a wizened old mage renowned for his expertise in manipulating matter. The classroom was on the tower's lower levels, where the walls were lined with ancient tapestries depicting magical feats of the past, giving the space an air of deep historical significance.

As David entered the room, he noted the students already seated, their expressions ranging from eager anticipation to the stoic determination of those who had experienced the difficulties of mastering such complex magic again and again. The old wizard was known to fail about fifty percent of his class every time.

He took his place among them, setting aside his lingering anxieties to focus on the lesson ahead.

Master Eldric began the class with a gentle, authoritative voice, his hair as white as the chalk he held. “Good morning class. Today, we will explore how matter regresses to its original form at varying speeds depending on the tier of the spell used," he explained, his hand sweeping across the blackboard, filling it with diagrams and equations.

"For instance," he continued, tapping his finger on a chart, “a Cantrip, unofficially considered to be tier zero, will last only a minute. Apprentice spells of the first tier will maintain the transfiguration for six minutes. A Journeyman spell, the second tier, can last up to thirty. And an Expert spell, our third tier, will hold the change for one hundred and thirty-eight minutes. This is because the differing tiers have a more significant effect on the world. They each grasp more of the concept the spell means to change them to, getting closer to the ideal. For example, a Master tier transfiguration can last up to six hundred and six minutes, but at that point, mages are capable of transmutation, which is a deeper, more permanent field.”

David found his thoughts drifting despite the fascinating subject matter. His recent visions intruded upon his concentration, the images of unseen soldiers breaching the city walls lingering in his mind. He wrestled with the implications, trying to understand how they could escape his sight and what their invisibility might mean.

He doubted it was as easy as them being truly invisible. It’d be a frightening force, one that couldn’t be seen, but he knew that if that were the case, he would have noticed something. Tracks, at least. Not to mention that getting enough Invisibility Cloaks or Rings of Non-detection to an entire army would bankrupt a duchy.

No, there was another reason, and he couldn’t rest until he understood it.

Professor Eldric seemed to notice his distraction, his sharp eyes locking onto David's. "Mr. Longs, can you tell us why it is crucial to understand the duration of these effects in a practical application?" he asked sharply.

David blinked in surprise, gathering his wits, “Transfigured food is especially dangerous if ingested, as it might revert to an inedible state in the stomach or even in the blood if the spell can hold for that long. It is known to be a subtle way of poisoning, as it can escape most methods of detection.”

The old man stared at him for a moment longer before nodding, “Precisely, Mr. Longs. Remember that what most consider weaknesses can always become strengths if one is crafty enough.”

The lesson continued uninterrupted, but David’s internal conflict didn’t subside. He couldn’t seem to find a way to change things, and he would die unless he changed the future.

Of course, that was when the bells started ringing.

Chapter 36 - Sometimes Simple is Best - Leonard 18

Lamprey Port was a beautiful town. If left to grow, it would unofficially reach city status in just a few more decades. Whether the Duke granted it a chart was up in the air. Given his known fear of allowing rivals to grow, Leonard doubted the current one would. His son wasn’t shaping up to be much better either, but he knew firsthand that people could change in surprising ways.

Leonard envisioned a future where his conquest of Lamprey Port would allow it to grow exponentially. As the second major port on the southern coast, it had the potential to rival Treon one day. The prospect of having such an industrial powerhouse on his side fueled his ambition, knowing it would significantly bolster the Revolution's strength. They wouldn’t depend on foreign powers if he had his say.

The first significant shipments from Brander and the Handriatic Union had finally arrived, bringing much-needed steel and enchantment materials that couldn’t be found in the Darkwood.

Given the Revolution's monetary situation, the foreign countries had been surprisingly generous, but it didn’t take much to understand they were selling him the rope they thought he’d tie around his neck.

They could have extracted a bit more cash from him by raising the prices above their market standard, knowing he couldn’t refuse, but that would have put his government, which was currently busy rebuilding Alpar and Thelma, firmly in the red. They wouldn’t have been able to afford a second shipment then, and the lack of resources would have weighed heavily on their campaign.

From an outside perspective, that would have been a deadly blow to his chances. And Leonard was sure the scheming bastards wanted him to be strong enough to give the Royal Army a bloody nose so that the kingdom would be too busy rebuilding to turn its eyes to the southern shipping lanes.

Obviously, he didn’t intend on stopping there. Conquering Lamprey Port would show everyone just how serious a threat he was. It would put him in a dangerous position, as having the potential to be threatening but not the strength to back it up would attract the sharks that thought him too frail now.

Which is why I’ll need to deliver a decisive victory here. I wanted the army to do most of the work, and I was even prepared to allow them to besiege the town for a while, but the situation has changed. We have used up too much time to train the recruits and need to move quickly to keep up with the timetable I set.

Leonard needed to get to Treon before Count Pollus could bring his army to bear. He needed to have his fledgling nation grow and produce more goods. Enough to sustain the campaign while only occasionally bolstered as he looted the noble holdings.

Even if Leonard didn’t hate the kingdom’s aristocracy with a burning passion, he’d still be forced to take their wealth, as otherwise, he’d never be able to keep his operations afloat. Not with the wages and social programs he had set.

It was a delicate moment. He needed to conquer more lands to sustain the army, which would keep expanding as he got more people under his rule and freed more slaves, which would require more money to maintain. It was the kind of situation where terrible mistakes were made.

I’d like to think I’m different, but everyone else in the same position also thought the same. Still, I doubt many had as much personal power as I do. This is why I’m going to leverage it now when small victories can make a big difference. It’ll be another thing altogether when we are facing tens of thousands of well-equipped soldiers.

“Still brooding?” A suave voice asked from behind him, and Leonard felt a smile tug at his lips. Turning around, he saw that Amelia had returned from consulting her spirits.

“I’m annoyed that I won’t be able to let the Army get some experience without me tainting it, but there is nothing to do about it. We need to take Lamprey Port quickly.” He said, returning to look at the bustling town in the distance.

Even from where they were camped, the sound of dozens of bells ringing was audible. It wasn’t a surprise that they had been spotted, as once again, their slow speed meant they had been expected.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to add some more worries, then,” Amelia murmured, going to stand next to him. “Count Pollus has finally had enough and threw several of my unwitting pawns in the dungeons, which was enough for the rest to fall in line. He’s free to start preparing his army in earnest now.”

Leonard hummed, acknowledging her words, “I see. Well, we knew it wouldn’t work forever. He’s a bit faster than I hoped for, but we should still be able to make it to Treon if nothing else happens along the way.”

“We should. General Locke is taking his time, and my agent reports that Count Luster-Treon is entirely uninterested in helping with the efforts, preferring to throw decadent parties.” She replied.

Amelia habitually never brought bad news without pairing it with something to brighten his mood. He appreciated her efforts to keep the morale high and regularly told her, “It’ll be good for the Ministers to know that we won’t only have capable commanders to face. I know Gerard has been looking forward to the fight, but I’ll take an incompetent noble leading the armies any day over a talented general.”

She snorted, somehow making the sound still ring elegantly, “I doubt we’ll have a shortage of foppish nobles anytime soon. Even in Lamprey Port, with all its mages and military detachments, they call the shots. We are also still being underestimated, which is good. They haven’t called for help and focused on preparing the defenses to receive us because the local nobles want the accolade of defeating you to their name.”

That didn’t surprise Leonard. He had expected to find fierce resistance, but learning that the leaders of Lamprey Port hadn’t even tried to get outside help had been surprising. Welcome, of course, but still surprising. He’d have thought his name would be enough to instill enough fear in the nobles that they’d run away with their tails tucked and had even been afraid he’d find empty vaults upon taking the town, but this was better.

“I have to say, I thought it’d get boring listening to their desperate attempts to keep their heads after a while, but somehow I still find myself amused.” He replied.

“Now, now, what would the clergy say if they heard you being this bloodthirsty? If you listened to the sermons they give the men, one would think you are the divine incarnation of the Light.” Amelia laughed, pushing her shoulder against his.

Leonard laughed along, though the sound was slightly strained. They weren’t as far off as she thought.

Fortunately, they were interrupted by Oliver, who came running up to them, waving to get their attention, “Sir Leonard! Sir Gerard has completed the preparations! We are ready to march!”

Lamprey Port’s walls were much stouter than Thelma’s. Thirty feet tall, they ran around the town until they met the sea and were wide enough at the top that a carriage could run along their length.

They had also been built with expansion in mind, and to this day, a century after the first spell was cast, they had enough space inside that the town could freely keep growing.

Despite their large size, they were much better defended than Thelma’s. Hundreds of riflemen could be spotted along their length, mainly concentrated around the main gates, where Leonard was leading his army.

Dozens of cannons also sat there, seemingly undefended, but he knew better. The slightest shimmer in the air betrayed the wards’ presence a hundred feet ahead of the walls, though even an attentive mage could have been forgiven for not noticing them, so well they were hidden.

These wards differed significantly from the temporary ones that could be raised around a small town to defend against raids. Lamprey Port had permanent protections that hundreds of mages could empower at any time.

They were the Silver Wind’s gift to the town for allowing her to build the Tower; to this day, they stood firm. She had been a Master, and it showed.

Beyond the shimmering wards that would disintegrate any unwary attacker, he could see the killing fields laid out with precision - fields riddled with magical traps and strategically dug ditches designed to slow any advance.

He knew he couldn't simply order a charge against such defenses. The wards were formidable enough that his new Mage Corp, despite being much better than expected, would spend hours ineffectually battering them.

Behind them, the open ground was a deadly maze of ensnarements that would decimate even the most disciplined army if they attempted a direct assault under the constant barrage from the cannons and riflemen above. All in all, the defenders had used the time very efficiently and prepared a series of advantages that would have discouraged almost anyone.

Leonard drew a deep breath and turned to his army, arrayed in neat ranks behind him. These men and women had followed him from Alpar, through Thelma, and now to the gates of Lamprey Port without a single complaint about his decisions. They trusted him and believed in the cause he championed, in the promise of freedom and peace. They, too, could see the defenses, and yet only the slightest doubt lingered.

Spurring his stallion, Leonard moved to the front line. He could feel the weight of their gazes upon him, their faith, and their fears mingling in the early morning air. He raised a hand, signaling for silence, and as he spoke, he infused his words with magic, beginning to cast [Halo of the Righteous].

“Warriors of Freedom,” he began, his voice carrying across the ranks, bolstered by magic to resonate with supernatural authority, “Today, we face one of our greatest challenges yet. Behind these walls lie thousands of our brothers and sisters, trapped by ancient magic and held captive by those who refuse to see the truth of our cause.”

He paused, letting his gaze sweep across the faces of his soldiers, their attention rapt, hanging on his every word. “We will not shy away from any challenge if it means liberating a single man, much less thousands. This is your moment, the time to show that the strength you have gained from your training has meaning. That it is with purpose. I can feel the Light burning bright within each of you, a beacon against the darkness that seeks to oppress us.”

As he spoke, [Halo of the Righteous] shimmered around him, a radiant aura that began to extend, enveloping the entire army. The soldiers began to glow with holy light, limbs strengthening and minds firming with supernatural vigor and determination.

“Our path is just,” Leonard continued, his voice rising with passion, “for we fight not for conquest but liberation. We are brought together, united by a common goal - to bring peace and freedom to all, no matter who stands against us. We will not allow slavery to continue any longer! For freedom!”

The army roared as he lifted his sword. Where any soldier would feel trepidation, seeing the mighty defenses before them, the revolutionaries were fearless. [Halo of the Righteous] was a spell Leonard had been hesitant to use precisely because it could turn just about anyone who could hold a spear in an unrelenting fighter, but the situation required a heavy hand.

Before he could call for the charge, however, he needed to deal with the wards. With his enhanced eyesight, he saw buzzing activity along the walls as the men realized something was happening. They’d begin shooting as soon as they got in range, and while his spell and the Mage Corp should be enough to avoid casualties, Leonard didn’t want to give them a free shot.

There was also the matter of the killing fields. But Leonard had known about this all in advance and decided to reuse a tactic that had proven very effective against any defensive position held by the Void.

The fact was that regular spells didn’t work, and Pure Casting required a long time, even for talented mages. So he, alongside his friend Bernard, had devised a way of turning the chessboard upside down. Something available as a possibility only because of his immense magical reserves.

Turning his senses down, Leonard allowed his mana to seep into the ground and, when he had saturated everything for hundreds of feet, enough that his actions couldn’t be ignored even by a mana-blind idiot and the activity on the walls became frantic, he heaved.

Chapter 37 - Get Your Blood Up - Leonard 19

Smiting them would have been more efficient, but then again, I don’t need to turn the whole town into a smoking crater. This is good enough.

That was an understatement.

Leonard had not used this specific spell for a long time, and certainly not since achieving his last Blessing. His control was too great for it to escape his grasp, but [Earthly Fissure] was still incredibly powerful.

As soon as he completed it, the ground began to rumble ominously. A second later, while the mages on top of the wall had only started to grasp the immense amount of mana that had been used, the entirety of the killing field that Lamprey Port’s defenders had painstakingly prepared heaved upwards.

Tons and tons of packed dirt and stone flew into the sky in a great plume. The southeastern side of the wall, where most of the gunnery was amassed, ready to punish any foolish charge, fell back into the city as the spell’s furthest edges caused the stout enchanted stone to crumble.

Leonard had cast precisely and was rewarded for his efforts upon seeing the wards fall apart, no longer supported by the local mages and missing a good chunk of their underlying rune work. Soldiers fell from the ramparts, screaming. It was chaos.

Ordinarily, competent mages would be able to extend what remained of the town’s protections over the breach, and while Lamprey Port didn’t have an Archmage, it still had enough Experts and a Master to make up for it.

Unfortunately for them, their reliance on the Silver Wind’s runes meant that the entirety of the wards fell apart the moment they were interrupted. They were strong enough to resist anything up to the fourth tier, but Leonard was in another league entirely.

As a bonus, he was confident he had managed to keep the damage to the artillery pieces to a minimum. Mana cannons were surprisingly resilient, being enchanted to hell and back, after all. But they would remain under the wall’s rubble for the moment, well away from any soldier trying to prevent the Revolutionary Army from using the breach he had created.

Before he could call the charge, Leonard had one last thing to do. He could feel the bloodlust and energy vibrating through his soldiers. [Halo of the Righteous] was in full force, and everyone was ready to go, but with the mile beyond them made up of jutting stones and deep chasms, it would take them far too long to get to the breach.

Stomping his foot to the ground, Leonard cast what he hoped would be his last spell for the day that wasn’t meant to heal. While most mages, and paladins more so, were limited to middling reserves and thus developed extremely specialized spells to take care of problems with the least expenditure possible, Leonard had always been overflowing with mana. He had found that even the basic [Shape Earth], usually used only as a training tool by most, worked just fine when fed enough mana to make a Master go green with envy.

His power once again swept over the empty plain, but this time, he used it to mend the broken ground. Stone flowed like magma at the touch of his will, plugging any hole and smoothing sharp rocks, and within a minute, the entirety of the field was back to what it used to be.

“Now! Chaaaarge!” He roared. His men followed, too amped up by his buff to stop in wonder at the massive elemental spells he had just used. They followed his order without hesitation, and the ground began to rumble again, though there was no magic to it this time.

The vibration caused by two and a half thousand men charging toward something was an entirely natural phenomenon, especially when they wore enchanted armor that should have slowed their movements but aided them instead.

Leonard led the charge as the Revolutionary Army surged forward, closing the distance with supernatural speed. His eyes were fixed on where the main gate had been, now a gaping wound in Lamprey Port's defenses. The defenders were still scrambling, their initial shock giving way to hurried attempts to organize a response.

Despite the town being home to two Army Corps and a Navy detachment, the first line of defense Leonard encountered was not the hardened soldiers he had expected but hundreds of slaves, forced into the frontline with crude, barely passable armor. The fear and resignation in their expression were more than enough to understand they were there against their will, if the magical collar around their neck, glowing with a sinister light, wasn’t enough.

Leonard's heart ached at the sight, and he shouted orders over the rumble at the approaching revolutionaries. "Capture the slaves, do not kill! They are brothers, not enemies!" His voice, amplified by magic, carried clearly over the plain, and he saw the beginning of relief appear on the slaves’ faces.

His soldiers adjusted their tactics on the fly as they smashed into the line, using the flat of their blades and non-lethal spells to subdue the unwilling combatants. The effectiveness of [Halo of the Righteous] ensured they moved with a precision and unity that was almost balletic despite the chaos of battle.

Leonard slapped a few away, careful to only injure them enough that the collar couldn’t force them to get up, before he noticed the riflemen behind the rubble trying to form a cohesive line.

Allowing his momentum to carry him forward, Leonard bowled past the remaining slaves in his path and moved to the second line, where the town's actual defenders had rallied. The riflemen had almost reformed ranks, using the slaves’ sacrifice without hesitation. Leonard did not give them the chance to complete the maneuver. He cleared the remaining distance with a powerful leap, landing squarely among them.

A spark of mana, not enough to form a real spell but sufficient to affect reality, altered his weight, turning him into a flying boulder for a second. The impact of his arrival created a shockwave, and a dozen soldiers went flying. Leonard was moving before the rest could recover, his blade a blur. For them, he had no mercy.

He fully intended to absorb a good portion of the local garrisons into the army once the town fell, but he had no reserves in eliminating men willing to sacrifice hundreds of innocents.

Heads rolled, and limbs flew. Every thrust, every slash claimed a life. At one point, five Journeymen tried to corner him, coming from different sides. Leonard could see in their eyes they understood that whoever he settled on attacking would die, and they still went through with it.

He could appreciate that kind of resolve, even if it came from the enemy.

Enchanted with [Medium Durability Boost] and [Medium Agility Boost], enough to make them worth a dozen gold coins each, their long white spears fell apart like sticks before Dyeus. Heavenly Steel parted flesh and ironwood with the same ease.

Leonard didn’t stop to sigh at the unnecessary loss. There would be dozens more like them who didn’t order innocent slaves into a suicidal charge.

Around him, the Revolutionary Army advanced steadily. His order to spare the frontline had cost them some of their momentum, which would have been a fatal mistake in any other situation, but [Halo of the Righteous] made up for it, granting the men unending stamina and strength. They subdued the slaves and kept running forward, reaching the second line with shouts of exhilaration.

Amused despite himself by the display of battlelust, Leonard decided his men would be more than enough to handle the riflemen now that he had eliminated the worst dangers, and resumed his charge.

He rapidly scaled the rubble made by the fallen wall, and the sight before him made him halt in surprise.

"Looks like my spear will taste more cowardly mage blood today. It’s Lunar Ray’s favorite.” Gareth’s voice came as he joined him, staring down at the thirty or so mages just completing a spell.

The air around them crackled with magical energy, the telltale signs of a powerful spell in the making. Sweat dripped down their faces, and there was no doubt in Leonard’s mind that they had a talented commander to have organized a ritual so quickly.

He grunted in agreement with his General, his focus narrowing on the mages. He could see the spell taking shape, a swirling mass of fire mana coalescing into a dragon's maw. It was the Master tier [Fire Dragon's Hunt], powerful enough to incinerate hundreds of men in a heartbeat. But Leonard also knew that such a spell, while devastating, would indiscriminately consume friend and foe alike if not cast with precise control.

It seemed that even the riflemen were considered an acceptable loss if it stopped the Revolutionaries from taking the gate.

Without further hesitation, Leonard charged forward, the rubble beneath his feet exploding as he propelled himself with a burst of Holy Light. He reached the mages just as the spell neared completion, the air searing hot around the fiery construct.

With a mighty roar, Leonard raised his sword, Holy Light surging from the blade in radiant waves. As the fire dragon bore down upon him, vast enough to rival a galleon in size, he slashed upward in a mighty arc. For a split second, there was a tense stillness, the battlefield holding its breath.

Then, with a thunderous boom, the fire dragon split apart, losing cohesion as the Holy Light obliterated its underlying mana.

The crescent slash of light continued its path, reaching the mages behind the spell. It struck them with devastating force, obliterating the group in a blinding explosion of light and heat.

The mages' demise sent a shockwave through the entrance plaza, toppling a two-story building behind them. The leftover flames dispersed upwards, turning the air above their heads into a superheated gas.

With the entrance secured, Leonard slowed, coming to a stop where a single mage had managed to escape, mostly unscathed. From the corner of his eye, he caught a flickering shadow, which told him how the kid had survived. Well, if Amelia likes him, he must be worth something.

Behind him, Gareth grumbled at the stolen prize before jumping away, alighting on top of a building from where he entered the town proper. He had his own mission to accomplish.

With a blink, the haze of fighting lessened enough for Leonard to speak. “I will give you one chance to surrender. Swear an oath on the Light you will not attack my men, and I’ll have you taken away from here.”

The boy, and he could see it was a boy no older than Oliver, visibly collected himself in a surprising show of resilience. Leonard had seen grown veterans fall apart after their comrades had been killed, but the young mage seemed made of sterner stuff.

“I swear! I swear on the Holy Light, may no shadow hide any lie, that I won’t ever attack you or your men, Hero!” As the oath settled, strong enough that Leonard could feel the boy meant it, he subtly gestured with his free hand, and before the captive mage could wonder what that meant, a [Nightstalker] emerged from his shadow, grabbed onto the boy, and dragged him back from where he came, so fast that not a sound was made.

Putting the lucky mage out of his mind for the moment, Leonard cast his senses back and noticed with satisfaction that his men were almost done taking the entrance. Only a few pockets of resistance remained outside, but Gerard was there to handle them.

The bulk of the army was busy scaling the broken wall, which Leonard was tempted to flatten but decided against. It would work well to contain any fugitive; his men wouldn’t tire just from that.

That done, Leonard stepped beyond the entrance square. Already, he could see a column of black smoke rising from the distance, which he knew meant the small force led by Amelia had managed to halt the Navy from joining up with the Garrison.

Since everything was under control, Leonard waited a minute longer until Oliver reached him. With a glance, he confirmed his squire seemed okay, though a bit banged up, and refreshed his energies with a wave.

“Let’s go.” He said, and the two moved deeper into the town.

Chapter 38 - A Siege Is Only As Fun As Its Duels - Oliver 4

“Please! Please, I have children!”

Oliver did his best not to roll his eyes at the man pleading for his life. He had no intention of murdering him and, in fact, had been in the process of ignoring the civilian carpenter before he threw himself to the ground and began groveling.

A glance at his mentor showed that he was both amused and impatient, so Oliver freed his legs from the man’s grip and stepped over him, “Just hide somewhere until this is over,” He grumbled.

The man seemed entirely flummoxed at the turn of events, apparently having expected things to go much differently, but after a couple of seconds, he stood up and ran away like he should have done from the beginning.

“I don’t get why they think we are gonna kill them all.” He muttered, resuming his march toward the docks.

“I have no doubt the local powers did their best to instill as much fear of us into the citizens as they could in the short time they had. It’s a good way of avoiding defections and traitors, even though it doesn’t last long when the people come into contact with the supposed monsters and realize they aren’t that bad.” Sir Leonard replied, quickly striding through the semi-empty streets.

Sounds of battle came from all over the city by now. Oliver knew that most of the Revolutionary Army was busy corralling the local soldiers away from their barracks - and thus easy access to ammunition and weapons - under the leadership of Sir Gerard. He almost pitied the bastards, knowing just how inhumanely efficient the Minister of War could be.

On the opposite side of Lamprey Port, acrid black smoke rose from where he believed the Magic Tower to be. Sir Gareth and Lady Amelia would be focusing on apprehending as many mages as possible there, as the Army was a greedy thing and always needed fresh recruits, especially magical ones.

On the other hand, he was supposed to take part in the push toward the docks, where the Navy contingent was supposed to be.

Surprisingly, there was very little stopping them from simply waltzing over there. Oh, a few town guards tried to set up barricades to slow them down, but nothing that could hold the force led by the Hero for even a handful of seconds.

The men and women around him were all grizzled veterans and made up the beginnings of the Special Forces that Sir Gareth had wanted to create. They weren’t enough to be an entire corp yet, and likely wouldn’t be for a long time considering the harsh requirements to join, but they were worth their weight in gold.

Even without Leonard to sweep away the resistance, once the wards had fallen, the fate of Lamprey Port had been sealed. Evidently, no one expected the much-vaunted protections to fail, especially so quickly.

The town was still reeling from the breach and hadn’t had the opportunity to prepare for urban combat - something the Revolutionary Army was extensively trained on.

BOOM!

A massive explosion echoed from the northwestern walls, strong enough to shake the ground. Oliver didn’t even have the time to pick himself up and ask what had happened when a shadeling materialized before them, clumsily bowing to Sir Leonard.

“The Tower Master has been neutralized, Grand Marshal.” And with that, it disappeared once again, leaving behind a group of still confused soldiers.

“Ah, Amelia always scolds me for my methods, and then she goes and does that,” Sir Leonard huffed in amusement, resuming his march and forcing all the others to put their questions away and catch up.

Finally, the cobbled streets opened, giving way to the wider spaces needed for port activities. Lamprey Port had massive facilities, especially for a town that depended so much on maritime trade. New docks shone under the sunlight, and crystalline waters greeted the invaders.

Distracting from the idyllic sight were the four galleys, which were in the process of removing anchor and setting sail.

It took Oliver a moment to register that the Navy was running away.

“What the fuck?!” He asked no one, but looking around, it seemed the others shared his disbelief. Humans, hobgoblins, and even the new entry, Neer the half-orc, stood there stunned. No one had expected the Navy to turn tail and leave this soon.

“Alright, then.” He heard Sir Leonard mutter before he turned to address the men. “Neer, Oliver, I want you to run to the end of the port, where the lighthouse is. Eliminate all who remain there, though I don’t expect much resistance. Jacob, Frisk, see if you can’t lift the boom chain. The rest with me, we’ll board at least one of the fuckers.”

After that, there wasn’t much time to think. Considering that they had just left the pier, the ships would take a while to leave the artificial harbor. However, Oliver knew from his studies that every galley was equipped with artifacts to increase its speed if necessary and always included at least one water and one wind mage. If given the chance, they’d leave before anyone could do anything.

His feet pounded on the stone path, and the wind pushed back, whistling as he accelerated more and more, mana surging in his limbs. At his side, Neer kept his pace without any visible effort.

Oliver would have liked to tell her to go ahead first. That they couldn’t afford to let the ships go free. But his every breath was needed. And deep down, he wanted to prove he could participate in an elite mission like this. Sir Leonard always extolled the benefits of hands-on experience, and he certainly hadn’t skipped on letting Oliver train against real enemies in the Darkwood, but that was different from an operation where the stakes were so high.

The Revolution couldn’t afford to let anyone escape to tell the tale of what happened in Lamprey Port. At least not anyone who would directly report to their enemies. Their most significant advantage so far was that the rest of Hetnia’s nobility seemed to severely underestimate them, which granted them the time needed to build up.

If an entire Navy detachment arrived in Treon and reported to General Locke that the Hero had smashed the Silver Wind’s wards like they were parchment, things would change quickly.

By the time Oliver and Neer reached the lighthouse, the galleys were halfway through the harbor and gaining speed, though one was lagging behind. He didn’t need to look to know that it was being hassled and likely boarded by Leonard, who had commandeered a fishing vessel for the effort.

He probably has a reason for not stopping them like he did in Thelma. I’ll have to ask him later.

The lighthouse was a tall, thin building made of the same limestone that comprised most of the port’s facilities. At its top stood a massive sunstone, charged with enough mana to illuminate the night for any vessel braving the dark.

“If they aren’t completely stupid, they’ll have left at least one man to handle the defenses. It should be obvious to anyone that they need to delay the cannons falling into our hands as long as possible.” Neer said from beside him, voice unaltered by the speed they were running at.

The half-orc seemed entirely unbothered by the whole affair. Oliver had seen her fight Sir Gareth for an entire minute in a spar where the two had only used their swords and no mana, which put the woman at a minimum of the peak Third Blessing. More likely, she was close to becoming a full Master.

She didn’t seem to resent having been put on the same task as him. Instead, she wore the same mildly amused expression she always had when looking at anything that wasn’t Sir Leonard. Only then did she shift into a more respectful stance.

Given her power level, she could have easily cleared the lighthouse by now. But she hadn’t, which meant she wanted him to participate in the effort.

Oliver would have been grateful if he could spare the energy. Instead, he channeled mana through his limbs, casting [Lion’s Strength] without speaking the words. Thankfully, Sir Leonard had refreshed his energies, which meant he wouldn’t need to hold back for fear of running low.

A blast of air, unfocused and barely holding together, hit the ground a few feet to his right, and Oliver halted.

Looking ahead, he saw a short figure peeking out of the lighthouse’s topmost window. His enhanced eyesight picked out the details, and he realized the girl there wasn’t much older than him.

She also seemed to be doing her best to murder him, in between sobbing her heart out.

It didn’t take a genius to realize she had been forced to stay behind, likely because she was a lowborn mage and thus had no one to speak on her behalf. She thought she’d die if she allowed the invaders to reach her.

“I’ll deal with the cannons; you take care of the kid.” Neer finally said, and with a burst of speed, she crashed into the heavy wooden door, turning it into dust and splinters.

Oliver followed suit, avoiding two more blasts, this time more focused.

The inside of the lighthouse was almost empty. A wide stone staircase led up to the top, only interrupted by larger platforms where the artillery was placed.

All the cannons face outwards, which meant Neer would need to lug one of them on the opposite side of the staircase and make a hole from which to fire. Oliver didn’t expect it would take her long.

Still, that left the enemy mage free to rain down death upon them, which he couldn’t allow.

Climbing the staircase with such an obvious disadvantage would be stupid under any other circumstance, but it wasn’t like Oliver had any other choice. He still hadn’t learned any flight spell, as those were reserved for Experts and above, and his attempts at learning [Gecko Walk] had been put aside in favor of getting more sparring practice.

He was regretting that now, but he couldn’t afford to waste time on it. He took his sword out, a blueish light emanating from it as he desperately batted away the [Air Bullets] the mage was sending his way.

Occasionally, she’d try to take a potshot at Neer, but all her spells frizzled out upon contact with the half-orc’s skin, so she gave that up, focusing entirely on Oliver.

He had the fleeting thought that if the girl wasn’t even bothering to stop Neer from shooting at the ships, there wasn’t much of a need to risk his life attacking her, but he had been given a duty, and he wouldn’t fail it. He couldn’t dishonor Sir Leonard like that.

“Stay away!” The mage screamed desperately, a vortex of wind swirling around her threateningly. It was a foolish display since Oliver had shown himself more than capable of taking on her attack magic, but it wasn’t like she was being rational in the first place.

Given what usually happened to conquered people, especially young women, she wasn’t entirely wrong to be so afraid. Obviously, Oliver would never do anything like that. He intended on beating her up a bit, maybe into unconsciousness if she didn’t give up first, but he felt it was justified given that she had tried to cave his head in for the past few minutes.

An explosion from the lower levels shook the lighthouse the moment Oliver reached the top floor, and he glanced down to see Neer whoop in joy, evidently having managed to get the cannons working.

With the mission's primary objective accomplished, he made to finish the rest.

“Please! I’m too thin! I’m ugly! Please!” The girl screamed, feeding more mana into her defensive spell. It was enough that Oliver suspected she’d fall down from exhausting herself in a couple more minutes if he let her keep going, but that was a waste of time, and so he marched forward, sword glowing with how much power he fed it.

His silverite armor showed its worth as the sharp, whipping winds did nothing but harmlessly flow over it, protecting him enough that he could focus on the offensive.

One look at the terrified, glazed-over eyes of his opponent was enough to tell him that talking wasn’t an option, so Oliver did the most efficient thing and brought the flat of his blade down in a heavy blow, sending the girl sprawling to the ground gracelessly. Her magic took a second longer before dispersing as he swung his sword, pushing it outside the large window with his own mana.

He crouched down, putting his hand on the girl’s neck, and sighed upon noticing her heartbeat was still present. He’d need to tie her up before leaving. Then, looking out the window, he saw the results of Neer’s handiwork. Of the four ships, one was already back at the pier, likely having been successfully boarded by the revolutionaries. Two were standing almost still, seemingly paralyzed with indecision, and the last had a massive hole in its side and was slowly sinking below the waves despite the desperate efforts of its crew.

The harbor was taken, the town had fallen.

Chapter 39 - Old Boys' Club - Jeremiah D'Ansan 1

“It’s really a sight to see so many men move with one purpose.” Baron Luxfeld said, taking a drag of his cigar and spewing sticky, heavy smoke. Luckily, he knew better than to do it toward Count Pollus, and so Jeremiah was spared having to hold his breath. The fat man had the odious habit of purposefully breathing smoke toward the servants just to make them cough.

“It will be good for Hetnia. I thought people would learn something from the Incursion, but it was too clean this time. A good war will forge the new generation into something decent.” Baron Langley replied, one hand smoothing his mustache. He was very proud of it and used expensive creams and perfumes, at least according to Mary Rose, the man’s personal servant and Jeremiah’s occasional partner for a romp in the hay.

Count Pollus stared down at the thousands of men running drills, shouting orders, and training into something that could face the rebellious army moving unimpeded through the south. The man had hard grey eyes, and no hint of warmth escaped him. His skin was sallow, mostly thanks to an old battle wound from a demonic worshipper that couldn’t be adequately healed, especially since it had taken the healers weeks to get to his position. Jeremiah knew the story by heart, having been forced to listen to the man tell it to his sons in an effort to teach them the world wouldn’t always be fair.

It hadn’t worked. The two men were frivolous and weak. But as always, being the sons of the most powerful man in Hetnia - technically, the Duke had greater authority but never left Mellassoria - had its perks. They would never want for anything. At least, apart from their father’s approval. That, they’d yet to receive.

“We were blessed with an easy Incursion and a powerful Hero this time. Something had to go wrong.” The man growled. He was always extremely pessimistic, taking every occasion to remind everyone around him that things could and would go badly. His silver hair was cut short in a military buzzcut, and he wore a simple, if very expensive, enchanted uniform, signifying his rank as the High General of the Kingdom’s Southern Army.

“He’s powerful, sure, but not enough to take us on. That means he’s either stupid - which I doubt - or too angry about his girl’s death.” Baron Langley might have been a bit of a narcissist, but at least he wasn’t an idiot. Jeremiah thought it was pretty obvious neither option was the correct one, but some people liked to think that all their enemies were incompetent. Given how few hours of rest he was getting lately, if it helped them sleep at night, he might have to try it himself.

“Bad bit of business, that. The Hero should always be integrated before they get a big head. Allowing him to keep running around with his people, spouting his otherworlder rhetoric… It was bound to end badly.” Baron Luxfeld agreed, drinking some Summertime wine from Lantea and taking a drag from his cigar. The golden chalice he held alone was worth as much as a good suit of plate armor.

“That is the one thing that makes me wonder how much of this was planned.” The Count interrupted, hard eyes going from one of his advisors to the next. “He was always very loud about his ideas of freedom. They never took root, so the Royal Court didn’t see the need to censor him, but it should have been enough to understand he wouldn’t be content with a pretty wife and some land.”

“You think he always intended to raise in rebellion?” Langley asked, narrowing his eyes.

“It’s not the kind of thing I’d expect from someone that direct, but it could have been a ruse from the beginning. It wouldn’t be too unbelievable to hold back, considering he was called into a new world without notice.” Luxfeld added.

Jeremiah thought there was a decent possibility the Hero had just gone mad, having fought the unending tides of the Void for four years after losing everything he had ever known. But that smacked too much of wishful thinking, and he hadn’t gotten to where he was by allowing himself to believe nice lies.

No, he’s a cunning enemy. He allowed himself to be exiled to make everyone’s guard drop and struck when he should have been at his weakest.

“Whatever the real reason might be,” The Count finally said, “We still have to deal with his insurrection. As far as we can tell, his desire to free all slaves is genuine, which makes him more dangerous. A pragmatic enemy is smart but predictable. A true believer is an entirely different problem.”

Noticing a subtle gesture from the man, Jeremiah hurried to refill his glass with deep, rich red wine, resealing the bottle with his magic the moment he had finished pouring.

It was a ridiculously expensive way of keeping drinks fresh, considering how much an Expert like himself could sell his time for, but having been assigned to the Count as an adjutant, it was part of his duties, and he had long since grown accustomed to the excesses of the aristocracy.

“Do you foresee any problem in culling it, then?” Luxfeld asked, much more serious now that the idle speculation was over.

Count Pollus snorted, much like an angry bull, but didn’t lash out at the man like he was known to do to anyone who asked stupid questions. Being one of his most trusted advisors had some perks.

“If he’s foolish enough to meet us on the field, we could be done in an afternoon. We’d lose many elite fighters to take him and his witch down, but we’d solve the problem.” Unsaid went that the Count didn’t expect Leonard Weiss to be that stupid.

Despite delays and significant opposition by indolent nobles who wanted to monopolize the duchy’s resources now that the Incursion was over, the Southern Army Group was a force to be reckoned with.

Ten thousand men, all Journeyman and above, marched in neat columns. Gleaming rifles adorned shoulders, fresh from the first new batches of the post-Incursion production lines. The screech of griffins, proud creatures with a wingspan of twenty feet and an agility in the air that even wyverns would have difficulty matching, boomed over the massive arming field.

And if all that isn’t enough, those things will be.

Hulking behemoths of ancient wood and magical steel, crafted by the best artisans of the capital over thousands of hours, enchanted with protections so robust they could crash into a castle and come out unscathed. The four massive King Vasily-Class airships sat moored at their land pier, being busily looked over by their crews.

They were the best weapons in the kingdom’s arsenal by a long shot. Armed with twenty-four 175Mu Cannons, divining arrays for targeting and wards so thick they could obscure the ship with their mere mana expenditure.

Some people had raised the possibility of simply sending the Air Navy to do its thing and bomb Alpar into a wasteland to ensure everyone knew what it meant to rebel. That had been rapidly shot down, as the mere expenditure needed to lift all four airships was enough to beggar a mid-sized merchant operation. To send them to the other side of Hetnia, unaccompanied by their escorts, was an expense and a risk that couldn’t be afforded, especially when the actual leader of the duchy would never write it off.

Still, they served as a potent reminder to Hassel’s citizens that they were safe. The airships had played an important role against the Void, as moving artillery allowed the city to hold until the Hero arrived and began to push back. They would serve once again should the unthinkable happen and this new rebellion grow enough to threaten Hassel.

Jeremiah had many reservations about building the King Vasily-class when they couldn’t be used for regular operations. In his mind, investing in a few smaller, less expensive-to-operate airships would allow for much greater maneuverability on the field. It was how the rest of the kingdom did things, after all.

But Duke Hetnia had insisted on his Air Force having only the best of the best. To try and cover some of the holes created by the limited range of the ships, Treon had been given its own King Vasily-class, straining the budget to its limit.

Count Pollus had been furious at the time. Everyone in the palace had heard his shouts of anger at the budget being plundered.

Jeremiah had merely been a cadet at the academy back then, and even he knew of that legendary row. But the Duke wouldn’t be moved from his position, and so Hetnia’s Air Force had the most King Vasily-Class ships beyond the capital and nothing else, rendering it effectively useless if not for the direst situations.

At least we have the Griffin Knights. They are a bit old school, but they work. Any army of regular soldiers is toast if a Battalion of them charges from the air. No amount of enchanted armor will protect a man from a griffin talon to the head.

“He will avoid us until he can’t anymore, and then he’ll make us pay as much as possible.” Baron Langley finally said, looking uncharacteristically grave, “I’ve seen the boy fight during the Siege. He has a viciousness to him. It won’t be enough to win, but he’ll make fighting him as unpalatable for us as possible so that he can keep raising levies and training them.”

The Count grunted in agreement, “His obsession with saving the slaves will give him enough men to throw into the meat grinder in a short amount of time. They will also be much more willing to die for him. How vicious,” He said that, but there was a grin on his face. His eyes seemed to almost glow in anticipation, and Jeremiah was forcedly reminded that this man had served for two decades as Commander of the Death Fort against the Western barbarians. He was steeped in so much blood he probably couldn’t see his hands.

“At least we know we shouldn’t face much interference from outside. Hammerfest is too entrenched with slavery to think about supporting him, and Brander is too busy with their northern border. The only ones who could afford aiding the boy are the Handriatic Union, but they are also our greatest ally in the south.” Luxfeld added thoughtfully. The others nodded, seemingly taking heart that the rebellion wouldn’t find fertile soil elsewhere.

If the Hero had been smarter, he’d have kept the slave-freeing on the down low to gather the southern states’ support, but since that was nominally the entire reason he was revolting, it wasn’t possible.

“We won’t get any help either,” Langley grumbled, “Garva is all too busy with the newest waves of barbarians dying upon the walls of the Death Fort, and as far as the others are concerned, the more of Hetnia’s citizens die, the better.” Even in such a private setting, the man was careful not to name names or imply the Royal Court was withholding support directly. You never knew when a Whisper was around to hear.

“It’d be humiliating if we needed them, considering the sheer disparity in power. The Hero might be a Champion, and his witch might be close, but history is full of Champions being felled by large numbers. His arrogance will be his undoing.” Luxfeld concluded, and the others didn’t seem to disagree.

Jeremiah was perfectly aware that within that statement was hidden the acknowledgment that they’d need to throw hundreds, if not thousands of lives at Leonard Weiss to tire him enough that they could kill him. But a Champion was a force of nature. It was the only way of facing one without having one of their own.

And given the Royal Court's tendency to offer massive wealth and titles to the sparse few who ever reached that level, there weren’t any to call upon.

Even in Mellassoria, there supposedly were less than five.

A lot of people will die to kill Leonard Weiss. But he will fall.

Chapter 40 - You wanted the Cake, Now Eat It - Leonard 20

Successfully taking over Lamprey Port should have been a joyous moment for Leonard, but he couldn’t wholly tamp down on his disappointment at how easy it had been.

Oh, he was glad that fewer than a hundred of his men had died. It made it possible to [Resurrect] almost all of them before their souls dispersed.

But he had hoped that a town this size could muster some decent opponent. It was an irrational thought, one he was doing his best to keep hidden, but the terrible rage he kept buried deep inside demanded to be let out.

Leonard wanted someone who could take what he could dish. It wouldn’t bring Belinda back, but it would let him breathe freely for the first time since her death. Keeping that dark emotion buried beneath countless layers of willpower was draining. He had almost snapped at Amelia for taking the Tower Master for herself, but apparently, the old man was a disappointment.

Not yet. Not yet. He crooned at the caged beast even as it snapped at the air, agitated. The time will come.

When?! When?! It shouted back, all teeth and fury. Oh, it would be glorious to unleash it. But it wasn’t the time yet.

It will come. Patience will enhance the flavor. A deeper, older voice rumbled. It was something Leonard knew intimately. The emotion kept him alive after being summoned into a new world. What kept him warm as he despaired over his sister, brother, mother, and father. It was what grew watching the senseless suffering that was imposed upon this world’s residents by the upper classes.

Leonard kept many secrets buried within his heart. He thought, one day, that he could share them with Belinda. He had even begun to rely on her, and she hadn’t buckled under the weight. She had helped him heal.

But now she was gone, and that old, terrible creature was back. And he had no intention of suppressing it. No, they were allies now.

“Is everything ok?” Oliver asked from his desk, sounding worried, and Leonard realized he must have been staring at nothing for too long.

Forcing humanity back into his features, he smiled at the boy reassuringly, “Yes, just thinking about everything we must deal with before we can resume marching. Our supply lines are strong enough for the moment, but they need to keep increasing steadily if we want to take the entire duchy before Count Pollus gets enough support from the capital to halt our progress.”

Oliver nodded, scratching at the back of his crimson hair. “The land around Lamprey Port is much more fertile than what we have east. There are already some farms around here, and we can expand them easily with the mages we have. It won’t be the same as having the Arborists do it, but any decent Journeyman can cast [Plant Growth].”

He’s grown. The old Oliver would have said to just rush to Treon and take what we need from the conquered towns, but he now knows that wouldn’t serve our purposes.

Now fully back to himself, Leonard smiled, “That is a good idea. Write it down, and we’ll discuss it during the council later. We’ll need some adjustments, and I already know Lia will insist that a portion of the alchemists be ordered to prepare fertilizers and nutrient replenishers so that we don’t dry out the land. Still, I don’t see why we can’t begin setting up this kind of operation now that we have access to arable space.”

He had already spoken about it with Lia, but there was no need to discourage Oliver. Light knew they’d need thinking minds and new ideas in the future.

“I’ll do that then,” Oliver answered, and his smile was genuine enough to chase the bitterness away.

“Oh, thank you, m’Lor- Grand Marshal.” An aged farmer said, and Leonard had heard the same mistake enough by now to know it was better to pretend he hadn’t noticed the slip-up.

Much like in Alpar and Thelma, Lamprey Port's lower classes were made up of hardy people. Once they got over their initial fright of their lands being overrun and saw that the town wasn’t in ruin and the enemy soldiers weren’t looting it for all it was worth - and hadn’t stopping that been a pain - they timidly emerged from their houses and began testing the waters.

After the first few encounters turned out surprisingly well, with soldiers directing them away from the upper district where the cleaning operations were ongoing but made no other move to harm anyone, they started returning to work.

These people knew that no matter what happened, if the world didn’t end, they still needed to open their shops, work their crafts, and throw the nets if they wanted to eat.

Luckily, this was precisely what Leonard wanted them to do. So, after finishing the innumerable meetings needed to set up a local government that could handle the day-to-day issues, he left the commandeered harbormaster’s office and went about showing his face to the people now under his aegis.

It had worked well in Thelma, but he was conscious that Lia and Amelia had influence there that he lacked here, and so he had been ready to put in the work to show the people he was worth their trust.

Watching the bowing man, one wouldn’t be remiss to think he was simply achieving respect through fear rather than gratitude and admiration, but that wasn’t the whole truth.

Yes, the people were afraid of what he could do to them. Who wouldn’t be after he had overpowered century-old wards with the ease of a child breaking a toy?

But they also thanked him genuinely. The freed slaves, of course, all but threw themselves at his feet whenever they caught a glimpse of him, but most of them - those who weren’t injured enough to require specialized care after years, if not decades of hard labor - had eagerly rushed to where the Army set up recruitment booths, offering the newly freed men a good pay, training and the promise of revenge.

That was enough for almost all of those who could pick up a weapon to want to join.

One day, we’ll have to start rejecting some of them. We’ll raise the standards and slowly filter out those not suited for the fighting we’ll see in the next few years. But for the moment, we need all of them, and I don’t have the heart to deny them their rightful revenge.

“Grand Marshal!” A soldier came running, interrupting the grateful workers crowding Leonard.

The man stopped before him, back ramrod straight and breath even. It was a testament to Gerard’s teachings that even Apprentices like this man had such high physical attributes.

After a gesture, the soldier began his report, “We have completed the operations in the upper district! General Doomspear has requested your presence as soon as possible to open the hidden caches.”

Ah, Leonard had been waiting for that. It had taken Gareth’s forces a surprising amount of time to go through all the manors and the Tower, but he hadn’t seen the need to hurry them. The Army needed time to absorb the new recruits anyway, and preparing for the next operations required a few more days.

He would have stepped in should they have taken too long, but they did well without his help.

Looking at the men standing before him in one of the minor market squares, Leonard decided to leave them with something. They already felt better with his assurances that their right to work and trade freely would be protected. But if he wanted enthusiastic citizens and not only subjects, he needed something more than that. Especially if they were to contribute to the war effort.

He swept his gaze among the mass of people who were staring at him. Some with curiosity, some with fear, and more with expectation. Men and women, humans and hobgoblins. There was even the odd half-elf among them, though they managed to blend in well enough that he doubted their identity was known.

“This is a time of great change. Society as you know it has collapsed, and from its ashes, a new, fairer system will take its place. But we need to nurture it. We need to defend it until it can stand on its own. My men and I will serve as its shield. But we need you to cradle it. To feed it. For that, the fruits you’ll reap will be greater than you can imagine!” He let a tiny portion of his aura slip towards the end. It was a useful tactic he had picked up from the generals of the Kingdom’s Army, who used it to impress upon their soldiers how important a task was.

Leonard had repurposed the ability to become a tool of inspiration. It wouldn’t affect minds directly, but it lent a gravitas to his words, meaning the people would take him more seriously than they would without.

With that, as the people began to cheer and shout that they’d do their part, he swept away, and the young soldier sent to collect him snapped out of the daze he had fallen into and scrambled to join him.

The walk up to the more affluent part of town showed that for all that Lamprey Port was a wealthy place, it suffered from the same sickness that touched Alpar and Thelma.

It’s the fruit of oligarchy. Wealth accumulates at the top, especially when inherited and not earned, which means it will remain stagnant.

The town didn’t have slums on the same level as Alpar, not having suffered a comparable influx of refugees, but it still became noticeably nicer as he kept walking away from the working districts.

During the past few days, Leonard had been too busy pacifying the last few remnants of the old order and putting his army back on its feet to explore, so he entered the aristocratic part of town for the first time.

The houses here were built with an eye for beauty in mind. Large gardens filled with exotic plants - a luxury possible only thanks to Lamprey Port’s positioning along the southern trade routes - and marble statues. Gated entrances made of enchanted iron, capable of withstanding a [Fireball] from a Journeyman without a scratch. Sparkling fountains.

The excesses weren’t as bad as Mellassoria’s, but few places in history ever got close to that monstrosity. Still, Lamprey Port’s aristocrats had grown fat and happy with their stranglehold over the mercantile trade to the east and had spared no penny to show it.

When he finally arrived at the Tower, located in the district's center, Leonard understood why it had taken Gareth so long.

The spire was truly massive for such a small settlement. It wasn’t even its height that allowed it to loom over the rest of the town, but its width made it a nightmare to parse through.

Each floor was large enough for four dozen rooms. Considering that it had twenty floors, Gareth’s team had to look through almost a thousand rooms regularly used by mages, which meant bizarre artifacts spread everywhere, alongside magical defenses and the possibility of triggering traps on every floor.

The man he had lumped the task upon waited for him at the bottom of the building. In his defense, he didn’t look particularly annoyed, but that might have been because he was finally done.

Gareth’s transformation from drunkard to driven knight surprised everyone who saw him, but Leonard wouldn’t have expected anything else. He was a man who needed a purpose, and there couldn’t be a greater one than revenge against the very system that had led him to despair.

“Good, you’re here. We waited to crack open the vault because I have no idea what the Silver Wind might have hidden in the scheme, and Lady Barks has successfully avoided me so far.”

“I think she just wants to avoid having to take responsibility for turning the Tower Master into dust before we could learn anything from him,” Leonard joked, earning a chuckle.

Chapter 41 - Last Chances And Decisions - Jean Franklin 3

Waking up in a cold sweat was a unique sensation. No matter how much Jean buried herself in warm blankets. No matter how often she carved warming runes in the air. She always, always woke up with a chill in her bones and fear in her heart.

Leonard’s visit was the starting point. What made the bad memories spring forth once again from the dark pit she had thrown them in. But it wasn’t his fault.

I decided to avoid a part of myself. It’s only normal it comes back to bite me when I least need it.

Rumors swirled in the capital about the Hero’s madness. About his savage killing of good nobles. His stealing their gold and goods, only to force them in chains to work. To humiliate them.

Jean thought that even the bards tasked with repeating the tale didn’t believe what they were singing. Unfortunately, people might if the truth didn’t come knocking soon. Lies had a way of filtering through the strata of society, not unlike the way alchemists purified their brews. They dripped down, drop by drop, until they were so different from the beginning that they were unrecognizable.

At that point, even wise men would struggle to understand they were drinking a poisoned brew.

Jean was inured to this specific lie. She met and talked with Leonard and knew the tale of his madness was false. Not that he didn’t hide a terrible rage, no. But it was a cold thing. He would use it as fuel for his ambition, not to commit atrocities.

Her own lies, too, stopped working. Whether that was because she had grown enough that they could not veil the truth any longer or because someone forcefully stripped her goggles away, she didn’t know.

The consequences were the same. She could no longer ignore the truth of the matter, which was that she had no intention of remaining in her golden cage.

She spent a week trying to tamp the thought down, like she always did whenever she was forced to do something by the Archmage. This time, it didn’t work.

The bards sang their songs even within the Tower. Especially within the Tower, where she could hear their lies and they could poison her ears.

It took no genius to realize the old man was trying to prevent any thought of joining the rebel Hero from forming in her mind. It was too late, unfortunately for him, and Jean, by now, knew how to play to his tune and not let him find out.

Despite the young voice screaming in her mind to be a good girl and that she was jeopardizing everything she had for a foolish notion of justice, Jean still organized her affairs.

No one, not even Demetria, was aware of the full scope of her abilities, which made it easy to operate without supervision. She opened her secret safe, took all the riches and materials she could scrounge up in the months since returning from the campaign, and placed them safely in the storage amulet that adorned her neck.

It had been originally the Archmage’s gift for coming back victorious. Enchanted to facilitate the flow of her mana and protect her from mind corruption, Jean had stripped it of its runes and replaced them with her own.

Despite its immense value on the open market, she did not need such a trinket. Where any mage would give their arm thoughtlessly at the possibility of increasing their casting efficiency by simply wearing a piece of jewelry, Jean found it cloying and restricting. It tried to force her mana in predetermined ways that might have been slightly more efficient than her own but prevented her from using her greatest weapon - her flexibility.

Surprisingly, a few of her noble apprentices caught onto the change within her. She had always dismissed them as inconsequential and spoiled, but somehow, they not only deciphered her intentions of leaving but also kept her secret.

When they had first confronted her - a girl and two boys staying back to ask questions after a lesson wasn’t that weird, despite her known preference for being left alone - Jean had almost struck them down where they stood. It would have taken little effort to break through the trinkets they wore for protection.

By their trembling hands, they knew it too. And still, they came to talk to her, promising they shared her conviction that the Hero was fighting a just cause.

It should have been unsurprising that it was nobles who had access to the least corrupted information, but Jean was still shocked. Because they promised they would abandon their wealth and titles if they were allowed to join her in her escape.

Of course, she hadn’t accepted their request with just that. A thorough examination of their minds had followed, one that they consented to with only minimal trepidation. Finding out that they were clear of external influence was relieving and anxiety-inducing in both parts. Because it meant that she now had a responsibility towards them.

Their addition to her plans had lengthened them by a couple of days, but she had been ready to leave for twenty-four hours and could no longer put it off.

Still, she had one last person she needed to meet to achieve a semblance of inner tranquillity.

Waiting outside the Archmage’s office was an old habit. It used to be that the old man would make her stay standing for hours on end. After proving herself, a chair had been added for her, and the time shortened to a mere half-hour. Now that she was the well-respected inventor of Pure Casting, the Archmage deigned to see her within fifteen.

Jean suppressed the bitter smile that threatened to spring on her lips and walked forth once the heavy Cold Iron doors opened.

That he could waste such expensive material on mere doors went to show how wealthy Wilbert Helmut was. Casting them from pure gold might have been less wasteful, but that would have looked tacky rather than powerful and mysterious, and he was nothing if not careful with his image.

A well-groomed silver beard covered his chin, and clear blue eyes peered at her with gravitas. He was old compared to her but quite young in the grand scheme of things - the Archmage of Brander was rumored to be close to two hundred years old. However, he held himself with the air of someone used to be in charge.

“My dear, you must forgive me for the wait.” He said once she entered, gesturing for her to take a seat. This, too, was a new habit. Once, she would have been made to stand in silence while he completed his work, and even after she earned her first chair, he wouldn’t have apologized.

Of course, he didn’t elaborate on why he had made her wait. But she hadn’t expected it. He still needed to draw the line somewhere to remind her of her place, after all.

“I wanted to talk to you about something personal,” She said instead of addressing his behavior. It wouldn’t change anything anyway.

The Archmage waved her on with a grandfatherly look. It made her teeth itch.

“I have been having trouble sleeping lately.” It was an admission of weakness that Jean had purged herself of long ago. From the way Helmut slowly blinked, he hadn’t expected her to say anything of the sort. Their talks usually were about her research and, if she was bothered enough by something, a request to deal with it for her in exchange for a service of some kind. She stopped asking for his affection when she turned eleven and was made to sacrifice her favorite stuffed animal to empower a ward over her bedroom.

Still, the old man was canny enough not to interrupt her while she made a mistake.

“All this trouble in the south reminded me of the people dispossessed by the Void. I know you told me the local nobles would receive the help to get things back to what they should be, but the process seems too slow.” She finally said, immediately noticing a flicker of annoyance in his eyes.

Jean hadn’t forgotten those she left behind once the Incursion was repelled. She had tried to use her personal influence to direct resources there, and when she found it insufficient, she asked for her mentor’s help.

By Leonard’s account, nothing of the sort ever arrived in the South. The people were abandoned to the mercy of greedy nobles who took advantage of their weakness, enslaved, and sold them. Those who remained free felt the same pangs of hunger and despair Jean had left behind so long ago.

“Operations are impossible now that Leonard Weiss has decided to go on a rampage. The latest reports show that he has taken the town of Thelma and killed all of its nobility.” It wasn’t an answer. It didn’t even attempt to be one. Wilbert Helmut needed to bow his head only to the king and relished that power. He certainly didn’t need to solve her every request.

It was also the last chance she could afford to give him. To show a drop of compassion. Of affection. Instead, he revealed himself to be what she had always known. A calculating, cold politician who cared nothing for the people’s suffering. He was a man who had climbed the Tower to stand at its very top and regretted nothing of the atrocities he had to commit to get there.

He might have been able to afford some compassion if he had been as talented as she was. But he wasn’t, and so he didn’t.

Jean, however, was done justifying his actions. Rather than ask for a more thorough explanation, she nodded, tucked her head in her shoulders like she always did whenever he rejected her requests, and left.

He didn’t even look once at her retreating, gaze already turned to a report on his desk.

Grimly, Jean realized this was the last time she’d see him outside of combat. There couldn’t be a world where he’d forgive her for her betrayal. The next time they’d see each other, he’d try to kill her.

The walk back to her chambers was silent, though Jean could almost physically feel Demetria’s gaze.

The woman knew her too well. Her collar imposed loyalty toward the Archmage, but she had seen Jean grow and had helped her when the world became too much. Had seen her touch the heights of magic and fall apart at a disparaging comment from her mentor. Demetria hadn’t pried in the last few weeks, simply because while she could keep her silence if she didn’t know something, the moment her suspicions became knowledge, she’d be forced to report it.

Jean didn’t doubt the woman who was the closest thing to a mother she had was aware of what she was plotting. Luckily, she had long since surpassed her mentor in the magical arts, and removing a collar enhanced by the Void with Pure Casting was a simple issue.

She flexed her will the moment they stepped into the chambers, sealing them in. Demetria had a single moment to look back in confusion before she was sent into unconsciousness by a simple sleeping spell.

“I’ll wake you up before leaving. You’ll have your chance to decide, but first, I need to take it off you.” Jean murmured, eyes soft.

Collecting her things was the work of a few moments. The bulk of what she wanted to take was already in her pendant, and she selected a few more dresses and smallclothes before turning her attention back to the sleeping slave.

She had already crossed the line with her actions. The three noble brats were likely already waiting for her at the sewers’ entrance near the docks, and night was fast approaching.

That, and I still need to make a decision about the orphans... Oh, who am I kidding? I already know I cannot leave them here to suffer in my place.

Light Magic had never been her forte. Not like what Leonard was capable of, anyway. But Pure Casting allowed her to cross that gap. A simple [Unlock] charm would have worked on a lowest-grade collar, but Demetria bore a much better one despite her lack of personal power. Simulating the Archmage’s signature was another possibility. Unfortunately, it would take time and was too delicate a work to test on Demetria when the collar going off would end her life.

No, she needed to simultaneously cast a spell powerful enough to melt the collar while protecting the woman from the effects. Luckily, Jean Franklin was the youngest Champion in Haylich’s history. Her eyes glowed as she allowed her mana to flood, and she set to work.

Chapter 42 - Contributions come from the Unlikeliest Places - Eleanor 1

Lord Luster-Treon hasn’t changed his behavior meaningfully, focusing mostly on wooing Lady Henrietta Grooves, but General Locke has started accelerating the preparations. I have heard from the barracks’ servants that the airship is being refurbished and prepared for deployment if it becomes necessary, though no one seems to think it will come to that. The general sentiment in the castle is that the rebels will be stopped well before they get here and that this is simply an annoyance that will mean high prices for some goods like wood and iron for a while. A soldier told me he doesn’t even think they’ll be deployed but that he appreciates the influx of money coming their way. Apparently, after the Incursion began being pushed back, the local garrisons were almost entirely forgotten.

Eleanor carefully blew over the ink, ensuring it was thoroughly dried, before folding the parchment over itself and slipping it into one of her pockets.

With a sigh, she stood, scanning the empty room she shared with another girl. It was barebones despite the luxuries the castle was filled with. Servants like her might not be slaves, but they certainly weren’t treated like valuable retainers.

The Luster-Treon household was one of the richest in Hetnia, controlling the city of Treon and thus all the trade coming from the West. Given Garva’s mountainous terrain and difficulty connecting with the rest of the kingdom, they served as one of the most important points of connection between the western duchy and the internal trade network.

Such wealth meant that the city of Treon housed a significant contingent of Army, Navy, and Air Force troops, not to mention the local adventurers and mages. This privileged position allowed its people to go about their day without much worry for the future.

As Eleanor left her room and entered the servant quarter proper, she saw dozens of men and women bustling, working hard to prepare the evening meal for the Count and his court. Luckily, today wasn’t a party, as even Ronald Luster-Treon knew how the experience could get cheapened if he had one every day, but there was enough work to go around that no one was allowed to rest beyond their allotted time.

“Girl! Take these to the laundry room and bring back some clean ones!” The massive form of the Head Cook of the kitchens had once scared Eleanor, but the half-orc had somehow turned out to be one of the kindest people in the castle.

She hurried to obey him, grabbing the massive basket of dirty towels and feeling her muscles strain. Luckily, her Blessing as a maid allowed her to carry such loads without feeling too encumbered, though she certainly didn’t enjoy it.

Weaving through the crowds of cooks and workers coming to get their meal with almost ethereal ease, Eleanor exited the kitchens and emerged into the servant courtyard. She didn’t stop her pace but exhaled a breath of relief, allowing her mana to recede now that she didn’t need to avoid being sent sprawling by an inattentive cook. She didn’t have enough of it to be wasteful.

A couple of minutes later, she reached the laundry room, where massive vats of alchemical cleaning solutions were always ready to meet the needs of the hundreds of people who lived in the castle. Gratefully, she followed the directions of a young girl waiting near the entrance and dumped her cargo inside one of the empty vats.

“The clean batch needs another ten minutes before it can be taken away. We are drying it, but the sun’s going down, and we can’t make miracles.” The girl told her, and Eleanor nodded in acceptance, moving to the side, where she could wait until the towels were ready for pick up without being underfoot.

Taking a deep breath, she observed the workers. Seven women pushed the dirty cloths into the vats, pouring fresh water and the cleaning agent and working furiously to mix everything with ironwood paddles.

Knowing firsthand how heavy those things were, Eleanor winced in sympathy, though she knew these laborers likely had a specific Blessing suited to these tasks. She certainly couldn’t have done all she did now back when she first arrived in Treon a year ago.

Becoming a maid had never been her dream, but she enjoyed the benefits of being good at her job. The increased stamina and agility were certainly nice, and she hadn’t spilled anything for the last seven months.

I know most people take at least a year and up to a decade to get their second blessing, but that’s with regular working hours. I’ve been dedicating myself to it day and night for months. I have to be pretty close to getting it. Soldiers can do it in a few months. I should at least follow their timeline. If my other job doesn’t interfere, though that might be better in the long run.

Having been approached by a mysterious woman months ago, soon after Eleanor managed to bag a job as an Apprentice maid at the castle, she had served as a spy for her employer ever since.

Not that she was privy to military tactics or anything beyond idle gossip she picked up from her colleagues and the occasional tidbit she overheard while serving the Count and his friends during mealtime. But her employer paid well for every report she sent, and she couldn’t deny there was a thrill in working to undermine the people responsible for the destitution she had found herself in.

Like many before and after her, Eleanor had been forced to flee her village with the onset of the Incursion. She fled to Sienne first, though the slums stretching outside of it had been enough to convince her she couldn’t stay. Treon had been the furthest she could get to without leaving Hetnia, and she wasn’t ready to go that far yet.

Luckily, she had an attractive enough face that the Lord’s Steward, who had been looking for new maids, accepted her quickly into his service once she presented herself to him. Even better, she hadn’t needed to repay the man physically. He accepted her coin easily enough, and after she got recruited as a spy, she was able to get rid of that debt.

Ten minutes had passed, and there was no sign that her cargo was coming. Noticing that all the other workers had long since stopped paying attention to her, Eleanor smoothly moved to the far side of the room, where the garbage chute was. She had no idea how her employer was able to pick out her messages in between the tons of waste that were thrown there every day, but she got paid for every single one she dropped there, so she grabbed the handle, opened it a crack, and slid the folded parchment inside.

Depending on how juicy her employer found her message, she’d be paid more or less. For simple, idle gossip, she usually received a dozen coppers, which were still enough to cover a few days of work, but once she had gotten an entire gold. She still wasn’t sure why that was because she hadn’t reported much that day beyond seeing a Blessing be given in the middle of the dinner hall and reporting the reactions to that.

Still, she faithfully wrote everything that happened. Who knew what would be valuable to the mysterious lady?

Today should be a good day. Military-based news always pays more, and with the rebellion in the southeast, she’ll be interested. I might get a few silvers. That silken ribbon from Lantea will be mine!

“Can you believe it? Apparently, he took Lamprey Port without much of a struggle. They say the Navy tried to run away rather than face the Rebel Hero in battle.” The high, mocking voice of Count Luster-Treon rang through the room, and Eleanor didn’t need to look to know that the young Captain who sat at the far end of the table was red in the face with shame.

This was a regular enough occurrence that no one batted an eye. The Count preferred feasts, that was true, but if he couldn’t get roaring drunk with his friends, his next favorite pastime was to invite someone from the city and humiliate them before the local nobility to remind them of their place.

Eleanor doubted it worked as well as he thought. If she were General Locke, the man in charge of the overall military deployments in Treon, she’d alert the unfortunate sods that they’d need to weather the treatment for a few hours and then reward them for making the Count think he still held the leash.

But she wasn’t, so she had no idea if the Captain was truly humiliated or playing along.

“I even heard they stood by while the Hero slaughtered civilians and nobles alike. The harbor’s waters ran red, and they did nothing but float there!” Miguel Gret, one of the Count’s hangers-on, added, eliciting a fresh round of laughter from the assembled scions.

Luckily, the captain had the presence of mind to keep his mouth shut. She had seen what happened when the chosen victim didn’t and would much rather not see a public flogging again if possible. Already, being forced to walk through the slave market that morning had unsettled her stomach enough. Eleanor didn’t know if she could keep her lunch down if blood came into her sight again.

“We might have to go and handle the problem ourselves! I bet we could assemble a company of horses within a day or two and be done before the week’s end.” The Count mused out loud, to much cheering.

Noticing the captain’s pressed lips, Eleanor thought he probably shared her opinion that it wouldn’t go as well as the nobles seemed to think, but that, too, went unsaid. It was unlikely, to say the least, that Ronald Luster-Treon would leave his warm castle to take the fight to the Hero anyway. The rumors might say he had gone insane, but they made it clear he wasn’t weak. A real warrior like that would be enough to destroy a company of young nobles who had barely gotten their second Blessing.

The Count stood up, pushing a lock of blonde-white hair from his eyes and lifting his crystal goblet high, “I propose a toast! To the brave men of the Navy, who resisted all of three seconds after the Hero entered Lamprey Port!”

Again, laughter boomed through the room. Feet stamped down and plates clattered as the assembled nobles showed their mirth in excess. The dozen servants scattered around the room said nothing. They watched the scene impassively, not making a noise. They were supposed to be invisible when not needed, after all, and Eleanor knew at least two of the older women were Experts who had served the household for decades. An equal-level ranger would be needed to spot them when they didn’t want to be noticed.

The humiliation continued for the whole meal, but the young captain seemed to have found a surprising inner strength as he kept his mouth shut and replied politely - if a bit stilted - when asked direct questions. It was a much better showing than men twice his age had, which endeared him slightly to Eleanor. Not that she’d go out of his way to help him, but she refilled the glasses of the people who looked to be gearing up to insult him to distract them, making them lose the moment.

These were glimpses into a world that was almost - but not quite - separate from hers. The young scions came from storied houses and had access to wealth and support she couldn’t imagine. And yet, little Eleanor undermined their every action. While working silently as a servant, barely above one of the slaves that toiled in the field or the mines, she passed along precious information without their knowledge.

It gave her a thrill. She couldn’t do anything for the young captain, not that he would have helped her had she been in his position, but she could go to sleep knowing that, one day, these people would fall, and she’d have contributed to it.

Chapter 43 - Chose a Job You'll Love - Sigurd 2

The Gull’s Roost was nestled in the heart of Lamprey Port’s middle-class district. It was a sturdy structure of wood and stone with wide windows and a welcoming aura. The scent of roasted meat and freshly baked bread wafted through the air, mixing with the saltiness of the nearby sea. Its main room was spacious, filled with well-crafted tables and chairs. A large fireplace dominated one wall, casting a warm glow that added a cozy ambiance.

Patrons sat at their tables, engaged in animated conversations, their faces reflecting relief and burgeoning hope. They were the town's tradespeople, merchants, and artisans, not impoverished but not overly affluent either. Their clothes were practical yet well-made, indicative of their status.

That they were here rather than cowering in their homes so soon after the town’s conquest spoke well of the kind of place the Hero was building. Indeed, Sigurd could see that many of them were fully relaxed, as if there hadn’t been a violent battle in these very streets just a few weeks ago.

In the corner, Sigurd stood on a small, raised platform. His silver hair shimmered under the light, and his androgynous appearance gave him an ethereal, almost otherworldly presence. As he strummed his lute, a hush fell over the room, and the patrons turned their attention to the bard.

“And I'll break my chains just to follow you,

And to feel freedom coursing through my veins.

When everything's torn, and the lies they have worn

Are just shadows that hide from the truth.

And I know there's a Hero among us,

Breaking through the dark with a guiding flame.

And though the world never sees what he does,

His heart beats for us all the same.”

The song had an upbeat tune, and Sigurd could see several people picking it up as he strummed, tapping their fingers on tables or stamping their feet. It wasn’t his usual repertoire, but he was being paid well to get the people going, and he’d do his job.

“And I’ll break my chains just to follow you,

To see the light that you shine through the pain.

The high lords wore crowns, but they let us all down,

Now your love lifts us up once again.

When the walls of the fortress were shattered,

And the maiden was freed from her chains,

We tasted our food, felt the joy in our mood,

For our lives were no longer in vain.”

His fingers were almost a blur as Sigurd worked his trusty lute hard to confer his words a building gravitas.

“And I don't want the world to deceive us,

For we’ve seen through their lies and their pain.

When the high lords fall, we’ll remember it all,

How your courage brought hope once again.

And I'll break my chains just to follow you,

To see the light that you shine through the pain.

The high lords wore crowns, but they let us all down,

Now your love lifts us up once again.

And I’ll break my chains just to follow you,

To see the dawn that you bring through the night.

For the Hero you are, is the light in the dark,

Guiding us, you free us from the blight.”

The applause he got was a bit overenthusiastic, but given that these were recently conquered people still trying to adapt to their new circumstances, Sigurd didn’t complain. He was vain enough that he even appreciated it.

Looking around at the crowd, he thought few were putting up a pretense. The Hero’s rhetoric of freedom for all was useful in that.

These people were still the ones with the most to lose, after the nobles, and they were waiting for the axe to fall on their heads after seeing what happened to the ruling class. In time, they’d relax. Once they understood it wasn’t just greed that brought Leonard Weiss to their quaint little town.

Still, for the moment, Sigurd did his part, ensuring that the good word was spread and that the populace could begin the integration process.

Songs might have seemed like a minor thing in the grand scheme of a military campaign, and Sigurd certainly wouldn’t dare march to Minister Dortmund and tell him he needed to hire more bards for his troops, but he was glad someone in the new government understood how important the arts were. Especially when they were in the process of building up a new national identity.

It’s not even particularly subtle. The priests keep bleating about true freedom and how everyone will now be able to walk into the Light. It’s a good strategy to build support quickly, but it gets repetitive. Oh well, it’s working well enough.

To someone like Sigurd, who lived and breathed freedom every day, seeing the revolutionary government push such an ideal was a welcome novelty. It also made him wary, as it sounded too good to be true, but for the moment, he’d cooperate. He could always skip nation if the winds changed.

It’s unlikely to happen soon unless they start losing on the battlefield. Which is always a possibility, but given what I know of Hetnia’s nobles, it’s unlikely they’ll pull their heads out of their asses in time to mount a significant resistance before the momentum turns against them.

Making the rounds around the tavern, Sigurd received many gestures of appreciation. He clinked his mug full of pale ale with several men, tipped his feathered hat to all the ladies who paid him attention, and dropped a fair tip to the servers for their hard work. The people who worked at the Gull’s Roost were paid a decent wage, but getting the waitstaff on his side was always a good idea.

Given the early hour, he didn’t need to keep performing constantly, and the owner had been open to the idea of taking breaks in between shows. Thus, Sigurd slipped out into the cool air of the evening and observed the last vestiges of light disappear behind the horizon.

It didn’t take long for the person he had sensed earlier to join him.

“That was a lovely song. You must have worked hard to write it so quickly.” The man’s voice was silky and smooth, but Sigurd was experienced enough to recognize the steely undercurrent. Light save him from overeager children.

“Why thank you, vicar. I have to admit that I was given a head start, so to say.” There, that should be open enough.

The priest blinked in surprise before calculation overrun his features. Just as quickly, they smoothed out in a mask of perfect calm. Scary.

“Ah, so you must be Amelia’s. It’d be good to know beforehand, but I suppose her work is hard enough without coordinating with me on every little thing.” Having neatly slotted him in a category, the young vicar seemed perfectly happy with himself. “Seemed” being the working verb because Sigurd could still sense wariness and mistrust.

“I was invited here by the Minister, yes. She heard of my work in the capital and how I was just about chased away from there because of the songs I spread praising the Hero, rather than vilifying him.” All true, even. If he had stayed a day longer, Sigurd was sure he would have rudely been waken up by Duke Hetnia’s guards and made to disappear in a grimy cell, never to be seen again. Well, if he decided to allow it.

The vicar gave him another long look; this time, the sky had become dark enough that Sigurd could catch the spark of Holy Magic in his eyes. Ah, so this one is the guard dog the Hero chose to clean up after him, huh? Kids these days. Very scary. To already be an Expert at less than twenty-five is a significant accomplishment. He could have become someone in the main Temple.

It wasn’t a surprise that the Hero had built up a base of talented young eccentrics before beginning his rebellion. Sigurd had only seen the man from afar, but by all accounts, he was a valid military commander and a terror on the field. Someone like that would know very well the value of high-quality assets.

Having ascertained that there was no falsehood in his words, the priest seemed to finally accept he wasn’t there on some nefarious mission. Oh, Sigurd doubted he wouldn’t be followed for at least a month, but he had passed the initial inspection.

He had the good sense not to poke the owlbear and kept his mouth shut despite the itch he felt. Teasing the young priest would be fun, but it wouldn’t get him what he wanted, and Sigurd had enough self-control to hold back for a greater payoff.

“Very well. If you’ll follow me?” And with that, the still unnamed vicar stalked off. Sigurd hurried to follow, allowing himself a smile at the show. Had the man hoped to find a spy he could relieve his frustrations upon? Or maybe he simply didn’t like the idea of his rival in all things sneaky getting one over him.

That sounds more plausible. I don’t doubt the Hero can be ruthless when needed, but it’s still too soon to build up a surveillance state. Ah, what I wouldn’t give for the ability to peek at people’s minds. I really have to convince Eketerenthriduil to teach me the next time I wander that far north. The overgrown lizard certainly wouldn’t mind if I found something to pay him with.

Too curious for his own good, Sigurd followed two steps behind the man. Soon, they left the neighborhood, entering the more affluent upper-class district, which he had yet to map out fully.

It didn’t take long to realize where he was being taken. The Magic Tower stood out among the nearby buildings like an overgrown tree.

Sigurd could admit to being surprised that the thing was still standing. Usually, it was one of the first things to go during an attack of this scale, given that the local mages tended to use its height to rain death and destruction down on anyone who got too close.

As they reached its base, Sigurd’s guide was met with crisp salutes by the four men guarding the entrance. They didn’t bother to stop them for identification, adding another notch to the man’s importance in the new government.

They were met by much more activity inside the building than he would have expected, given that he had heard the story of a third of the local Experts being vaporized by the Hero upon entering the town.

At least two dozen mages bustled around the atrium, and now that they were inside and the active wards didn’t stop Sigurd’s senses, he could tell that many more were working tirelessly on the upper floors.

“I have to say, I appreciate the tour of the facilities, but I’m supposed to hold another round of my show in half an hour, and getting back will take fifteen. Is this going to take long?” He finally asked once they stopped before the - elevator, wasn’t it? Magical artifacts of this size were a rare sight outside noble households and Magic Towers, and while Sigurd frequented the former occasionally, he wasn’t left to roam nearly as much as he would have liked. No one trusted bards to resist temptation, after all.

His guide sighed but didn’t seem too annoyed with the question, “You’ll be able to return to your mission soon enough. I just needed a third-tier bard to check on something. You’ll be paid, of course.”

Brightening at the prospect of earning more money and being allowed to look at bardic magic - why else would they need him? - Sigurd followed the priest into the elevator.

The ride up was smoother than expected, and he caught the man's amused look as he stared at the runic circles in fascination.

“That’s our work. The locals could maintain the artifacts, but not much beyond that. We put it back into working condition.” Ah, so the revolutionaries had access to talented artificers, too? It seemed Sigurd would need to raise their chances at victory a notch.

A minute later, after navigating the surprisingly busy corridor, they arrived at what looked like a perfectly average study. The kind that professors would receive upon achieving their tenure and use mostly to entertain students and keep their less-sensitive research.

“Almost everything in this place was within the expected parameters. They had only one Master, who wasn’t even the one who made this. But somehow, the damn thing has managed to stump us all.” The priest said, gesturing at what looked like a perfectly average Cold Iron lockbox.

Oh, that’s a beauty.

There was no other way to describe it. The box was made of nonreactive material and was worth a lot on its own, yes, but it was also so much more. A thousand and one threads of bardic magic covered its exterior, and Sigurd couldn’t even begin to guess what was inside. The spells were made in such a way that they overlayed the Cold Iron but didn’t come into contact with it at any point. Trying to force it open would automatically cause them to cascade on top of each other in what Sigurd would bet was a pretty significant set of defenses. No wonder even the powerhouses he could sense around the town hadn’t been able to crack it open.

He felt a grin worm its way on his face and decided that if he got to see such things occasionally, he wouldn’t mind the over-the-top behavior the revolutionaries tended to engage in. I could stick around for a while.

Chapter 44 - Victory and Bureaucracy - Neer 2

“Again!”

The boy picked himself up without complaint, showing he was much less pampered than the noble scions she had seen in the same position before.

He took a moment to retake the proper stance and, with a deep breath, invoked his new skill. “[Anointment]!”

Holy Magic surged, granting him supernatural strength and speed; between a breath and the next, he was off. His sword came down with finality.

And yet, what should have been a shearing strike was easily turned to the side, and the image of the perfect paladin was broken. The boy was sent sprawling to the side, and his opponent sighed, lowering his guard.

“You still put too much of your weight into it. You are not using [Anointment] to its full potential this way. The beauty of this skill is that it allows you to strike as if you were putting your all every time without needing to actually do so. Any opponent will think you are open and try their best to avoid and counterattack rather than take you on directly. Do not give them that opening.”

It was good advice, and Neer found herself humming in agreement. She didn’t think the boy was necessarily ready for such advanced tactics, but then again, she wasn’t his mentor, and the Hero had shown several times he knew what he was talking about.

The training session continued for a while after that, and she contented herself with observing how the two humans interacted. It was obvious that the younger one deeply admired his teacher, and she could see that their relationship even had paternal hints. Leonard Weiss treated his squire like a mother hen would her chicks, directing him with endless patience and nudging him when necessary.

The image overlapping over the conqueror striking fear in the hearts of the kingdom’s nobility was quite funny, and Neer allowed herself a smile.

She was smiling much more lately. It wasn’t something she had ever thought about much before, but these days, there was always something that brought her a bit of happiness. Sometimes, it was the satisfaction of completing a training routine better than before now that her collar didn’t hold her back. Or even having an interesting conversation with a new person.

These were not things she had even known she lacked. Only after being freed did she realize how much she was missing. It was why she had sworn to herself that she’d see his crusade to the end, whatever that might be.

The training continued for another half an hour before the outside world came calling in the form of one of the many new bureaucrats that had been hired lately. The young man sprinted down the courtyard, barely holding onto a stack of papers to his chest. Neer had to consciously stop herself from sneering, as she had scared quite a few weaklings into unconsciousness.

“Grand Marshal! This has just come in!” He said, almost yelled really, waving the stack of papers as if it would explain anything.

With seemingly unending patience, Leonard - he had insisted she call him that, which, while difficult in the beginning, made her quite happy - sheathed his blade and turned to face him.

“The Redistribution Office was clear that this needed your immediate attention, Grand Marshal.” The bureaucrat explained, having the sense of stopping a couple of feet away and proffering the stack to Leonard respectfully. Neer knew that it was a feature of government that untrained soft men and women would gain a semblance of power over stronger people, but she still didn’t like how they got used to it so readily. At least, they all seemed to hold Leonard in high regard. She would have had to intervene had they been anything but extremely respectful.

Leonard took the papers and started skimming through them, returning them to the young man once he was done. The courtyard was silent while he read, the benefits of having a private area for training.

Neer had never had such a luxury, but she didn’t begrudge the Hero for taking it. He had earned that and much more, in her eyes. He already spent a lot of time personally overseeing the training of his troops; no one could begrudge him some privacy when he saw to the needs of his squire.

“I see; it’s good that they found a bard to break through the wards. But is this estimate right? A month seems like a long time.” Leonard finally said, lifting his eyes to the young man once he was done reading.

“I was told the contractor believes the lockbox to be an experiment by the professor who owned it before. Some kind of test to see how many different ‘stories’ he could weave together before they lost coherence.”

Neer hadn’t exactly followed the efforts to sift through the Tower’s riches, especially since she had been more concerned with impressing upon the more rowdy ex-slaves that their energy should be directed toward training and not making trouble.

Still, she knew the vicar had been stumped by a seemingly ordinary safe. It had been a matter of great curiosity among the revolutionary mages, and the betting pool had reached a significant sum.

It still didn’t seem important enough to bother the Grand Marshal, and the bureaucrat appeared to understand that, as he stood there in embarrassment, trying to justify why he would come running to report such a minor thing.

Luckily for him, Leonard patted his shoulder and sent him on his way with only a warning to wait until they were done with training next time.

On the other hand, Neer turned a frigid glare to the two soldiers that should have kept people away. Seemingly understanding the danger they were in, the two paled and straightened, taking a much more intimidating stance.

I’m going to work them to the bone. The Security Force has just been created, and they are already slacking off? I’ll make them wish they had this job again.

Since her elevation as Captain of the Security Force, Neer had been busier than ever before. Standing around during her old master’s meetings had undoubtedly given her an appreciation for how burdensome leadership could be. Still, it hadn’t prepared her to be the one calling the shots.

She had always thought of herself as a warrior. That meant she didn’t enjoy sitting in silence while some idiot prattled about whatever minor task he had been assigned.

Fortunately, the Hero was intelligent enough to understand this. He had granted her leave to administer the SF as she liked, provided they could fulfill their duties.

Neer turned her attention to the four dozen men and women under her command. They were all ex-slaves like her, eager to prove themselves and find a new purpose.

They are rough and have the same problem I did. A lot of experience doesn’t translate into growth when you are a slave. Wearing collars stops everyone from getting blessings. But this means they should only need a little push to get to where they should be.

She had chosen these people precisely because they were all guards of some kind. Their instincts were already good. She just needed to impart a few skills beyond what they already had, and they’d do the rest by themselves.

“I’m not one for speeches, so I won’t bore you for too long. You are here because you want to repay the debt you feel toward the Grand Marshal and his cause, and I’m here to make sure you don’t die before you have done so. Follow my orders, and you’ll become useful. Slack off, and I’ll remove you.” There was no need to coddle these people. They were hardened by suffering and wouldn’t respond well to kind words anyway.

“Yes, ma’am!” Her soldiers yelled in unison, and Neer gave them a curt nod before indicating they should move to where the weapons were stored.

“Take a weapon you are comfortable with. Leave the firearms for now. You’ll need both for your duties, but we must concentrate on the basics first.” The Security Force was meant to oversee the creation of local militias for the newly conquered towns and to police the army, after all. Leaving such a burden on the regular army meant they’d have less time to train, which was opposite to the Grand Marshal’s mandate. And now that the recruiting had brought them to a comfortable number of soldiers, they could afford to create specialized units.

Neer wouldn’t say this was her dream assignment. Still, she had been personally picked by her savior for her ability to maintain control over every situation, and she wouldn’t disappoint him.

I will still be able to participate in the regular operations anyway. This just means I’ll have a specific job to do once the fighting ends.

Once the soldiers had grabbed their weapons, she indicated for them to move to the wider courtyard area, where they could move without bumping into each other. “I want you all to go through a series of drills. The ones you are the most familiar with. If you don’t have any, just wait until the others are done. This is so that I know what I have to work with. I’ll show you what we’ll be practicing once we finish.”

The recruits started going through the forms they had been taught. Most were rudimentary, and only their physiques allowed them to complete the motions. This was a problem most ex-slaves had. Their muscular bodies, built by constant exertion, lacked the skills to use them as anything beyond dumb muscle.

I didn't have much more time away from a collar than these guys, but the few skills I learned were polished to the absolute maximum.

Neer observed carefully, making a note of who had some real talent and who looked to be mostly coasting by. It wouldn’t be a problem if they followed her guidance, but she knew well that even freedmen could be ungrateful. At least, there didn’t seem to be anyone below the threshold necessary to learn a basic skill.

“Alright, that’s enough. I want you all to repeat what I will show you next. This is the simplest of combat skills and yet the most useful of them all. A time will come for you to learn fancier, more intricate abilities, but now you must build your foundation. [Thrust] is the best for that.” Once she was sure all eyes were on her, she grabbed her sword, smoothly unsheathing it. Focusing on the space before her, she allowed mana to flow into her right arm and pool there.

Her eyes narrowed, and she shouted as her coiled muscles exploded in motion. Such was the power of her attack that the air whipped in her wake. A furrow five feet long and two inches deep was carved into the ground beyond the sword tip.

Resuming her neutral stance, Neer was gratified to see that most skepticism was gone from the recruits’ faces. [Thrust] was a simple skill, but it was almost always enough in the hands of a good fighter.

“I expect you all to need at least a week to learn [Thrust] and how to use it effectively, but once you do that, we’ll move onto [Roar], a crowd control skill meant to stun large numbers. These two will be the basis of your skillset.”

Of course, just showing them a skill once wasn’t enough for anyone but the most extraordinary talents to grasp anything. Neer repeated the show several times, highlighting the reason for each movement, how she called upon her mana, and her mental state.

Since [Thrust] was such a basic skill, it didn’t surprise her that a third of the people could create a soft glow around their weapons by the end of the session, while the remaining ones had at least managed to move the mana in the right direction.

It’ll take a while, but I will build the best corp in the army if it’s the last thing I do. Discipline will be enforced, and nothing will undermine the revolution.

Chapter 45 - Take a Deep Breath - Leonard 21

If someone had told me that being summoned to another world and being granted magic would mean having even more tedious meetings than if I had stayed in my old world and gotten an office job, I’d have laughed in their faces. I also would have been wrong.

Watching the last of the budgetary clerks leave the room, Leonard subtly cast [Minor Restoration] on himself, finally getting rid of the headache that had been building up since he started reviewing the Revolutionary Government’s finances. The situation wasn’t dire, not yet, thanks to the gold and precious materials they had taken from the conquered nobles. But the reality was harsh - their current expenditure was not sustainable without a continuous influx of cash.

The clerks had proposed lowering the soldiers’ pay or, at the very least, directing the available resources to more immediately productive activities. Leonard immediately shot that down, making sure everyone in the room understood that nothing of the sort would be happening anytime soon.

He hadn’t explicitly said that the troops’ enthusiasm relied on earning fair wages, but it had been emphasized enough by his words that he hoped they wouldn’t try to push for cuts like that again.

It’s not that the people don’t believe in freedom. Especially right now that the army is made up mostly of ex-slaves and veterans from the Incursion, we could afford to pay them less and still have their enthusiastic contribution, but that’s a terrible habit to have. I need the money to circulate anyway, and few spend their coin as well as soldiers.

Frankly, the local economy would have made anyone with an understanding of market forces weep. Demand existed only from the upper classes, who’d then distribute the goods to the lower classes through shops they owned or private ones that still depended on their goodwill. Trade was almost nonexistent, having never really picked back up after the Incursion, if one excluded the slave merchants.

His efforts to get some going with the southern nations had borne fruit, but it wasn’t enough to sustain a campaign without opening up to unacceptable risks. Which meant that he had no choice but to keep pushing.

“We must find a way to delay Count Pollus’ army until we have taken Treon. Once the mouth of the Great Slitherer is in our hands, we’ll control the border with Garva and be in a position to threaten the southern trade routes.” He finally said to the empty room.

“I can keep slowing things down with inconveniences, but they won’t do more than slightly delay at this point. We need a proper diversion.” The air replied.

Smiling at Amelia’s antics, Leonard looked over at the unrolled map on his desk. He would have liked to confront all his enemies directly and at once, but allowing the two armies to unite would make the situation untenable.

Several towns, castles, and villages sat on the way to Treon, enough that it would take them a month to march there, even generously assuming they wouldn’t get bogged down. The army would need to keep to a tight schedule, which meant no more slowing down to set up training camps.

Considering the latest intelligence reports, they’d still need to continue absorbing all who were willing and able to build up their numbers, or the more well-equipped loyalists would sweep them away once they got around to it.

I don’t particularly like actively planning to lose so many lives, but [Resurrection] makes the calculus much less grim. It doesn’t have one hundred percent efficacy, but it’s close enough that I don’t feel guilty leading an army of Apprentices and Journeymen. Especially since the preliminary data the new department put together shows that we are advancing fast. We should see the first Experts among the veterans in a few months at this rate.

“What are our options?”

Amelia finally appeared, stepping out of the shadows gracefully. She stopped to look over his shoulder at the map and leaned forward, tracing a finger around Hassel. “If we can’t do anything about the speed of preparations, we’ll just have to send them on a wild chase.”

Leonard immediately nodded in agreement, seeing the wisdom in her words. He wasn’t used to having to resort to such tactics, having been spoiled by the efficiency and power of the Heroic Party, but he couldn’t compare that to leading an army. Different tactics were needed.

“Frankly, the fastest way to do that would be to raise another army on the eastern coast of Hetnia. It wouldn’t need to be effective at anything beyond capturing a few small communities, just enough to send the message that we changed direction.”

“Do you think that’s feasible? Training up the army we have is already consuming all our resources and effort. I doubt we’ll be able to sustain a different one so far from our supply lines.” He replied though he didn’t dismiss the idea.

“I’m not talking about an army similar to what you and Gerard are building here. No, it’d only need to be threatening enough that the Count cannot ignore it, especially since he pulled back the garrisons from the northeastern towns to form his army. An old-school peasant rebellion will be enough.” Amelia then tapped a finger on the biggest settlement on the eastern coast, Volten. "This will be our goal. We needn’t take it, but our presence near it will be unacceptable, as it would mean the Count could risk being encircled, or worse, we could threaten Hassel while he’s in the south. He’s experienced enough to know it would be a terrible trap to walk into and arrogant enough to think he could deal with the nuisances fast and march back to the west to face the main army before you get to Treon.”

It wasn’t a bad plan. A bit rough around the edges, but Leonard could see its merits. The biggest problem, as far as he could tell, was that the Count was a capable commander, and the risk existed that they’d be sacrificing thousands of people for nothing if he managed to win there and still get to the west before he could take Treon.

Possibly sensing the direction his thoughts went to, Amelia sighed, “I’d prefer to stay with you to coordinate the intelligence better, but I could take command myself. I thought of giving it to Sir Gareth since he seems to be chomping at the bit to fight, but for all that he’s a talent on the battlefield, he doesn’t have the most strategic mind.”

Leonard grimaced. “Gareth would be a good choice if he didn’t focus too hard on what’s in front of him. I suspect he’ll reach the Master tier soon with how hard he’s training and leading patrols to snuff out scouts, but he wouldn’t be the best commander for such a delicate operation.” Losing Amelia would be a setback, but looking at the map before him, he decided the Army could do without her for the march to Treon. All the settlements they’d have to take on the way there were distant enough from each other that they’d need to split up the army anyway, lessening the benefits of having such a powerful Spirit Summoner.

Or rather, her presence was necessary to facilitate communication between the Corps, but Amelia was more than powerful enough to sustain her shadows from the other side of the Duchy.

“You could test him by giving his elite Corp an important mission and seeing what he does with it, but I don’t think he’s ready for an operation of this level yet," she replied.

Her purple eyes scanned the map, focusing on the small villages dotting the northeastern coast. Hundreds more of the same had once existed just a bit further south, but having been the staging ground for the Incursion, the area was entirely barren.

In a way, that would make moving up north faster. Amelia could reach Volten’s region within a few hours if she traveled through the shadows, and from there, she’d be able to foment rebellion unopposed.

“Focus on freeing the slaves. They’ll be much easier to convince than the local freemen, and once the towns start falling, people will join up whether they agree or not.” This was more callous than Leonard liked being, but he trusted Amelia to keep the losses to the minimum necessary to achieve their goals.

“Very well, I’ll go after summoning enough spirits to handle communications for the Army. I’ll leave one with you to keep you updated. I should be able to buy you at least a week, possibly even two.” With that, she stepped back from the table, offering him a determined smile.

Leonard grabbed her hand before she could vanish, forcing her to look at him in the eyes, “Remember that your safety is of the utmost priority for the sake of the revolution. Do what you can, but be safe.”

A slow smirk spread across her face, her plump lips stretching to reveal pearly white teeth. “It will be a cold day in hell before the nobility of Haylich can outwit me."

And with that, she vanished.

Privacy was not something Leonard had been afforded much lately. After he had done his duty and defeated the Incursion, he had hoped to be able to retire from public life, but that hadn’t been possible.

The few short months he had spent with Belinda in their little cottage at the edges of Alpar had been idyllic, and even now, with the memory tainted by her death, he couldn’t help but come back to it whenever he sought peace of mind.

Now that the basic training of the army was over and the time afforded by sabotage and interference was coming to an end, they’d need to begin the campaign in earnest. Stopping to rest wouldn’t be an option for a long time.

This was why Leonard had run all the way back to Alpar, taking advantage of Amelia’s continued presence in the camp outside Lamprey Port’s walls. With her there, he knew nothing untoward would happen, even if he selfishly disappeared for a few hours.

“I never really understood the appeal of cemeteries. They felt gloomy and cold to me when I was a kid, but now I kind of get it.” Leonard said to the stone before him, knowing he would never get a response back.

Still, he continued, “There are some things that people need, even if they don’t make much sense when taken outside their context. The belief in higher powers is ubiquitous to all cultures I have ever known, even those in my old world that didn’t have the tangible benefits of magic and related powers.” Here, he stopped to chuckle. Humans had the ability to get used to almost any circumstance, and even the supernatural could become boring.

“And yet, death remains something of a mystery, even now. Many philosophers have written about the nature of the soul, but nothing conclusive has been found. Well, necromancers of a certain level probably know something, but they are not sharing with the rest of us,” A wet chuckle shook him, and Leonard sat down, tracing the outline of Belinda’s name with a finger.

“Casting [Resurrection], unfortunately, doesn’t give me greater insight into the matter. I know souls exist and go somewhere else after death and that if I’m early enough, I can pull them back into the body, but after that, it’s all blank.” His own arrival into Haylich had been through a summoning, without trucks or divine agents of any kind killing him in the process. One moment, he had been looking in his fridge for a snack; the next, he was in the summoning chamber.

What he knew was that the Void, being the true antithesis of Life, could sever a soul’s connection to the material world, forever cutting off his ability to call it back.

“I won’t ever forget you. You are, to this day, my beating heart.” His eyes were unseeing, a deep green that looked almost too intense to be real. He shed no tears, for he had long since run dry.

Leonard knew Oliver was worried about him. The boy was surprisingly perceptive and had realized just how much he was suppressing his real emotions, leading to sporadic, abrupt flashes of intense anger. But how could he do anything different when allowing himself to feel would lead to disaster?

The heat of a star’s core churned deep within him, ready to be called upon at the slightest hesitation. If he had lacked self-control, Mellassoria would now be a smoking crater.

The grass around him dried as an oppressing heat enveloped the cemetery. For a fraction of a second, Leonard allowed his anger to peek through. The green field around him, wet from the morning dew, immediately turned into a charred ruin.

Belinda wouldn’t have wanted this, and so he pushed it back down, allowing the Light to soothe him.

[Resurrection] answered his call as easily as breathing, and the field was once again green.

Chapter 46 - Eastern Blues - Amelia 6

Leonard’s little trip had slowed her departure by a few hours, but eventually, Amelia was able to leave Lamprey Port.

The scars left behind by the Incursion were on full display as she traveled along Hetnia’s eastern coast. Blackened earth, whence nothing could grow for decades, filled her view. Where once she had found sandy beaches full of colorful fish, she now saw only still waters. The damage done by the voidlings in their quest to end all life wasn’t something that even Leonard could solve with a few spells.

Time would be needed. Nature had to cleanse these lands at its own pace. But eventually, they would get back to what they were.

Charred settlements dotted the coast, and they were harder to ignore. Amelia used her senses to sweep the area, curious to see if scavengers or brave settlers had attempted to reclaim them since the danger had passed, but not even animals crossed her shadows.

By the end of the day, she had finally left the dead zone. The first signs of life became more visible, and a sense of unease she hadn’t even noticed left her.

I’m a Champion Spirit Summoner, more than capable of turning this shithole of a duchy into a dead zone by myself, and this place still gives me the shivers. There is something deeply wrong with the Void. It’s anathema to all that lives and even to what’s dead. It’s the absolute end of all things.

The first village she found still inhabited was too sleepy to serve her purposes. Only a couple dozen people worked the fields, and even then, they lacked the collars to show their status as slaves.

Amelia observed their bustling for a few minutes, surprised despite herself that to these people, life hadn’t changed much, even with all that happened in the last few years.

The Incursion had ravaged the land. The nobles had worsened the aftermath significantly with their greed, and now there was a full-on rebellion taking place in the south. And yet, these men and women went about their day like they had before everything started.

She would have liked to observe some more, just to satisfy her curiosity, but she had a duty to fulfill, and time was tight.

The next town was larger and had a small fishing port. Amelia vanished into her shadows and entered it, crossing the walls without effort.

A situation similar to Alpar's was uncovered during her scouting. Hundreds of refugees fled the Incursion to the nearest safe settlement and never departed, having lost everything to the Void.

Amelia didn’t doubt that those she could see weren’t all of those who got away. Many would have been enslaved and sold to northern lords to work the fields at low prices, and they would have gone with it because at least it would mean having a meal to stave off the hunger.

Those left behind were the hardiest, most stubborn of the crop. Exactly what she was looking for.

It turned out that Leonard’s presence might have served as a stopper to the people’s anger. Amelia had considered the matter before but pushed it away as irrelevant. Things would happen as she wanted, or she’d make them.

Watching the people of Lucea take up arms and wash away the corrupt nobles holding them under their thumb as soon as she had proven the death of the two strongest garrison members made her rethink the matter.

It was possible that since the Hero of the Light had taken residence in Alpar, its inhabitants had subconsciously put the onus of change on him. Such an august figure would have the power to solve their problems, and if he didn’t, it was certainly beyond their means. At least, that’s what she believed they might have thought.

Lucea’s condition wasn’t significantly worse than Alpar’s. Sure, she could see more hunger in the people’s gaunt faces. Likely a result of the lack of organization among the few capable mages willing to help. It was a duty she and Old Lia had taken up in their town, and seeing the consequence of their absence was a heavy thing indeed.

Still, Amelia only had to nudge a few people to the correct conclusions. She appeared to the local leaders once to explain what was going on in the south and that while she couldn’t solve their problem for them, if the people rose up she’d be more than willing to kill the garrison Captain and the Pink Petal, the druid adventurer who so enjoyed bullying the weak.

There had been no hesitation in their agreement once an old Journeyman mage who had once met her recognized who she was.

The small port burned first to prevent anyone from getting on a ship and leaving, and then the mob closed in on the “noble district”.

It wasn’t much of one if Amelia was honest with herself. Its residents were little more than up-jumped peasants in the grand scheme of things, but here, the difference between them and the rest was significant enough to matter.

Leonard wouldn’t have allowed the people to tear the nobles apart with their bare hands like she did. He’d have stepped in and imposed order and justice.

Amelia was a different beast. She would never directly counter one of his orders, but he had left the handling of the Eastern campaign to her, and she would use everything available to her to win.

She only had to personally kill two more people who had managed to slip away in the chaos and were making for the more “civilized” north.

I’ll allow people to get the word to Count Pollus soon enough, but I first have to get things going. It wouldn’t do for him to get here quickly enough that I cannot set my trap.

While Volten was the end goal of her operations, Amelia was more than happy to take her time and conquer every little town on the way there.

Her numbers were swelling significantly with every advance, and by now, she had set up a way to quickly get things going everywhere.

She’d move well ahead of the haphazard army she had gathered, leaving command to a council of the few elders with some fighting experience and enough of a brain to know not to test her patience. She’d then scout the next target, observe the populace, identify the most powerful people and their allegiance, and then move to eliminate those that could pose a risk to her aims.

It turned out that dropping the severed heads of a Captain or the strongest mage around on the table of the local plotters smoothed things out significantly.

No one questioned her ability when her hands still dripped with fresh blood, and only twice did she have to call upon her shadows to intimidate the hottest heads.

People wanted desperately for things to change. They didn’t necessarily see the need to upend a system that had existed for millennia, like slavery, but they didn’t put up much resistance when she made it clear it would end.

And whatever grumbling elder objected to her taking charge of everything usually quieted down quickly enough once her army reached the gates.

In a single week, Amelia had freed four thousand slaves and gathered a host of nine thousand.

Now, of course, the level of preparation and strength was incomparably lower than the main Revolutionary Army. These people were starving for months if not years. Their only thought had been their next meal and not how to cast a better [Fireball] or to learn [Thrust].

But quantity had a quality of its own, and desperation was a strong motivator to improve.

Amelia wouldn’t say she callously sent her army to the slaughter, but she didn’t have Leonard’s seemingly infinite reserves. Though she could kill every enemy they encountered so far, doing so would have robbed her subjects of valuable experience, which she couldn’t afford.

Death was much more common on the eastern front than the southern one. A few priests joined up - she didn’t need to check to know it was Damien’s handiwork - and their presence ensured that those who got out of a battle alive would eventually be healed, but they couldn’t cast [Resurrection]. They certainly couldn’t maintain Leonard’s rate of healing, which meant temporary camps were set up with the injured and dying where their pained moans and bodily fluids wouldn’t bother the newly freed towns.

“My lady, the men are ready to march, but we have just received a runner from Mondos with some bad news," one of the elders she had conscripted came to inform her. He was a surprisingly spry old man who handled a massive greatsword with little trouble on the battlefield but who enjoyed appearing frail by wearing voluminous robes most of the time.

Amelia already knew that Count Pollus had finally started moving and had sent a few advance squads to deal with the closest rebellious towns. Still, she allowed the man the privilege of explaining to her what he thought was happening. It was important to cultivate these people, or she’d have to micromanage everything.

She already had eyes on the enemy, after all.

The shadeling had no name. It did not need one, as it was far from the power required to merit distinction from its brethren.

It slinked around the burning village, avoiding the notice of the humans running around without much effort. It had no physical eyes, but it didn’t need any, with all the fires casting shadows.

Screams pierced the night. The cries of injured and dying humans, of desperation. The shadeling cared not. It observed, cataloging how many children died and how many mothers thrust themselves on a sword’s path to fruitlessly defend them.

Following the concentration of humans, it eventually reached a wider area, where the bulk of the town’s population had been taken.

A few hundred people were huddled to the side, watching grimly as the enemy soldiers led more and more away from their hiding places.

“Let it be known that there is no mercy to be given to traitors!” A voice called for attention. The shadeling could have ignored the compulsion, but it still turned, curious to see who had led the soldiers.

“You might see men and women before you, but they are not! They are the most foul of all creatures. Saboteurs! Traitors! Vermin that eat away at the stability of the realm! They are the rot that prevents Haylich from achieving its rightful place! These are the enemies you will face! Harden your hearts, men!” The speaker finally came into sight. He was surprisingly young, dressed in an officer’s fineries and sitting astride a massive warhorse.

A shining sword hung at his side, so bright the shadeling knew it needed to avoid getting near it. The speaker had rigid features and cold blue eyes. He wore his long blonde hair in a low ponytail and looked at the assembled townspeople like they were dirt beneath his shoe.

“Now! This is the last chance you’ll get to avoid retribution! Tell me where the Hero is! Tell me now, and your family will be spared. Keep silent, and you’ll all pay!” There was no mistaking his tone. This was a man who wouldn’t bat an eye if he was ordered to slaughter innocents, much less those he considered aiding the enemy.

The locals cried out for mercy, saying they had no idea where the Hero could be. Some tried offering possible locations, but even the shadeling could tell they weren’t sure. Others outright lied. All tried to show their willingness to cooperate.

These were not the hardened ex-slaves who would do anything to prevent being collared again. They were simple men and women who had agreed to participate in the rebellion once the armies of its mistress got close enough to threaten their peace.

Most likely, they agreed with its principles, but not enough to keep their mouths shut when faced with an entire Royal Army Corp armed to the teeth.

The enemy commander believed none of them. He brought his horse to a stop before the eldest of the townspeople and waited for him to speak.

When the man repeated that he didn’t know, and his words rang with truth, the commander turned away, shaking his head.

“Kill them all.” He said, and the soldiers complied.

Chapter 47 - Hold On Till Morning Comes - Charry 1

Waking up to the sound of artillery impacting the wards was not exactly what Charry would call a relaxing way to start his day, but at least the company wasn’t bad.

The woman lying next to him shifted, grumbling unintelligibly about the damnable noise. He grabbed her waist and pulled her closer, earning a sleepy murmur of pleasure.

Once the cannons stopped, Charry opened his eyes and was treated to long brown tresses filling his vision. He sputtered, using his free hand to remove the offending hair from his face.

The ceiling of the small apartment he had been assigned greeted him. It was made of stone, dry, and not at all where he thought he’d be at this time of the year since summer was starting and the fields needed tending.

Even just a few months ago, he had been out patrolling at this hour, protecting his fellow slaves from animals and bandits alike so that the masters could steal their labor. Now, he was a Sergeant of the 4th Corps of the Revolutionary Army.

“Do you think they’ll be able to break through this time?” A feminine voice distracted him from his musings.

Turning slightly to see her better, Charry observed his bed companion for the last three days. Rhea, if that was her real name, had been a bed slave of one of the town of Margì’s minor nobles. Not pretty enough to become a mistress, but not ugly enough to be thrown away.

After the 4th Corps had swept through the town like a swarm of locusts, with General Doomspear eliminating all those who could pose a threat to their presence before moving on, she had been left without an income. Having never known a trade different from selling her flesh and being too afraid of death to join the army, Rhea had attached herself to him, the one who had freed her from her collar in the first place.

Charry wasn’t above accepting her gratitude. When that turned into a regular arrangement, he didn’t complain either. He made sure she knew she was free to go and that she needn’t fear hunger or cold, as the Revolution had a place for everyone.

The Hero would have never allowed newly released slaves to go back to their squalor. Poverty was exterminated with prejudice at his orders.

Another roar shook the wards, and Charry refocused. “I doubt they’ll manage this time. We have a significant supply of mana crystals, and even if those dry up, we have more than enough Journeymen to power them for a few days. Reinforcements will be here before then.”

He knew some of his companions would have liked to charge out of the walls and into the fray to slaughter as many of the masters’ dogs as possible, but they had their orders. They could only engage directly when the enemies tried to storm the walls, as abandoning their fortified position would lead to too many deaths to be worth it.

Not that the loyalists had any hope of breaking through the wards, but they could significantly stress them. Given enough time, it could lead to localized breaches, so patrols and timetables were organized and distributed to all soldiers.

All of this had been explained more than once to the soldiers of the 4th. Captain Rubeus had personally ensured the more thickheaded ones repeated his words verbatim, wanting to avoid anyone getting any ideas.

Charry thought the Captain was a bit too uptight, but since he was a veteran of the Incursion, no one gainsaid him. Especially since he was the only one with direct contact with the main army that was supposed to relieve them.

“Is the Hero as wonderful as they say? I heard stories and songs, of course, but they all seemed farfetched. More like a fantasy than anything real.” Rhea asked, snuggling deeper in his embrace.

Charry smiled, happy to be able to spread the good word. “The Light acts through him. That’s something you have to see for yourself to believe, but once you meet him, you can never doubt that he has the blessing of the heavens. I’ve seen him sit down with ex-slaves for meals, chatting with them like old friends, and resurrect dead soldiers a mere hour later.”

She looked up at him with shining eyes, curious and amazed at his words. Charry grinned boyishly and slipped a hand under the covers, earning a tinkling laugh. They had other things to think about.

“I kinda wish I had taken the additional classes now.” Rupert huffed from beside him, loading another crystal into the rifle’s opening.

Charry laughed, observing the shimmer above their heads to make sure the ward was still holding. He knew it was supposed to be able to shrug off anything the enemy could throw at it, but the way it shook whenever they mustered up a cannon battery still made his heart leap into his throat.

It didn’t help that he had seen the Hero cut through similar protections without effort.

Of course, he was the Hero. He operated on an entirely different level than puny mortals like him, but knowing it was possible to break wards at all made him nervous.

“Knowing exactly how you’ll die is not much use if you still cannot do anything about it. If you ask me, us common riflemen should stick to shooting at the enemy rather than fill our heads with numbers and all that tripe.” Anton grumbled from his other side. Not that it was a new occurrence since the only dwarf in the army liked to grumble about anything and everything.

Charry didn’t know if it was a racial trait, having never met another of his kind, but he thought a country couldn’t possibly work if it was made up of people like Anton. Nothing would ever get done. Or maybe not having some poor sod like him pick up the slack meant that the dwarves got to work sooner rather than later.

Apparently, a whole kingdom of them was hidden underneath Garva’s mountains, but that might just be another exaggerated story the dwarf told to pass the time.

“Charry here has been promoted to Sergeant. You shouldn’t include him when you talk about us lowlives,” Rupert replied amusedly.

“Well, Charry would get more respect if he stopped fucking around and started nailing the enemy.”

Light give me strength. I might have gotten the position because I’m the best shot here, but I’m sure it was a punishment for how much I annoyed the trainers by flirting with the girls at the camp.

At least the punishments there had been more training and lectures and not the whip like at his old master’s.

If there was one thing Charry would never complain about, it was how shitty life was compared to what it used to be. Even in the middle of a besieged town, things were still better than working in the fields with barely enough to eat.

Shaking the memory away, he refocused on his task. Peeking from behind a crenellation, Charry saw that the enemy line hadn’t moved much. With the wards still active, there was no reason to, but he still preferred to verify things with his own eyes. After all, they had been under cannon fire for days now, which made no sense if the enemy commander didn’t think doing so would gain him more than the wasted ammunition.

Did he know something about the local wards they didn’t? Charry had tried to take his worries to Captain Rubeus, but the man had been too busy handling the supplies issues and the civilian population. Considering that they had been given strict orders from General Doomspear not to loot the stores meant for the common people, they were currently a bit tight. Not enough to make anyone hungry, but the Captain couldn’t be too generous.

But why are they wasting so much ammunition if they aren’t pushing to overwhelm the wards?

The question kept buzzing in his head. Nothing, not even Rhea’s sweet embrace could fully distract him from it, and now that he was back on the wall, occasionally shooting at whoever got a bit too daring, Charry couldn’t ignore it any longer.

Standing up abruptly, he began to count the enemies he could see in the distance. Immediately, they focused the fire on him, which would have ordinarily sent him back down behind the stone, but this time, he trusted in the magic to protect him.

The more he counted, the bigger the pit grew in his stomach.

At the beginning of the siege, he had seen at least five hundred men manning the cannons and occasionally shooting with rifles, but there were now less than a hundred. Enough to still operate the weapons, but certainly nowhere near as many as in the beginning, and he knew for a fact that they hadn’t killed more than fifty.

Where are they? They cannot be too far, and we would have noticed hundreds of men retreating. If this were a way to pin us down in the town and free up men to attack another settlement, we would have seen it. They built up earthen walls to hide behind, but even from here, I can tell there are not enough fires for everyone that should be in their camp.

Meanwhile, more enemy riflemen noticed him and increased the mana bullets coming his way. They all splashed uselessly against the wards, which made Charry purse his lips.

We are all new to this. They must have noticed it took just a few shots to send us ducking back behind the walls, even with the protections up. We gave them free rein to do whatever they wanted to. Fuck, I still don’t know what they are up to.

Unless the enemy soldiers had been granted expensive invisibility cloaks, which Charry very much doubted since his teacher at camp stressed they cost at least a golden coin each, they must still have been around somewhere. They hadn’t flown away, that much was sure. They’d have been shot down immediately.

So where are they?!

“Are you tryin’ to get yerself killed?!” Anton bellowed, grabbing Charry’s arm and pushing him back down, “They’re gonna light us up if ye keep standing there like a mole in the sunlight!”

Charry was about to roughly answer that he was doing something important when the dwarf’s words registered in his brain.

A mole? Like a mole? Oh, fuck.

“They’re below us.” He whispered, eyes widening in fear.

To his credit, Anton didn’t take long to understand what he was saying. The dwarf’s face whitened abruptly as blood rushed from it, making his dark beard and bushy brows stand out even more, and after a second of standing stock still, he charged down the closest stairs, bellowing to raise the alarms.

Charry took a moment longer to recover from the realization and then followed, grabbing Rupert along the way. The rifleman grumbled at the rough treatment but didn’t put up resistance.

By the time they got down to where the stairs led to the main gatehouse, several soldiers were peeking out of the nearby buildings, alerted that something was wrong by the dwarf shouting at everyone he saw to arm up.

“What the fuck is going on?!” Came the rough rumble of a massive man, who stepped out of a stone building nearby, greatsword at the ready and eyes still unfocused with sleep, “There better be a good reason to wake me up so soon after my shift!”

The earth began to rumble under their feet before Charry could explain the terrible suspicion that had taken him.

“They're digging up!” Anton shouted, rushing away from the stairs and towards the gatehouse, trying to get to cover.

“The enemy dug a tunnel to bypass the wards! Prepare to fight!” Charry echoed, bringing his trusty rifle at the ready and motioning to make space.

That was when the stone at the stairs’ base cracked and, with a heave, exploded upwards, showering those few soldiers who still hadn’t gotten to cover with debris, causing many to cry out in pain.

A moment later, a cloaked man emerged from the newly opened hole in the ground, hands extended and panting with effort. A thin, shimmering shield covered his form, protecting him from the falling rocks and allowing him to open the way for the hundreds of men Charry was sure were coming behind him.

Before the man could do anything else, Charry aimed his rifle and let loose.

None of these bastards are gonna pass.

Chapter 48 - Not An Inch More - Charry 2

Charry had killed people before. Some during his dark days as a slave. He didn’t like thinking of those since his master had used him as a tool to frighten his fellow victims. He couldn’t resist because of the collar, but those images still haunted him. They took his breath away and made him curl up with guilt.

Others he had killed in his service of the Revolution, and he felt no regrets about. They were all enemy soldiers, and while a few could have been convinced to switch sides, most would have no problem putting down a rebellious slave like him.

Seeing the earth mage’s head explode into red mist as he unloaded the stored charge of his rifle and overwhelmed his defenses did not move him. Instead, Charry smoothly removed the spent crystal, placing it into his pouch, and, in the same movement, grabbed a full one, slotting it in and activating it with a spark of mana.

Most of his comrades were still in the process of understanding what was going on. Some of them, like the massive Tusk who had come from the 104th Royal Corp, had instincts and experience enough to overcome the shock, but most of the 4th Revolutionary Corp were ex-slaves, and while they had developed some skills through training, they had never faced an immediate threat they weren’t prepared for in advance.

Charry should have been like them. But he wasn’t. Something inside him, some instinct or ability, let him process everything around him calmly. He didn’t freak out. He simply repositioned and prepared to make the enemy’s mistake as bloody as possible.

Despite the mage’s gruesome and quick death, he was under no impression that it would be over without an actual fight. And indeed, as soldiers started pouring out of the hole, stout shields held high to protect the invaders from the hail coming their way, Charry realized there was a real possibility this would be the last thing he did.

I probably forced them to come out before they were ready for it. Since they tunneled up to here without setting off the wards, they must have been pretty deep and could have likely gone into the town proper. But they didn’t, which means they have a way of monitoring us because they came out as soon as Anton freaked out and we told others about the possibility of a tunnel.

Aiming for the gap between shields, Charry let out a single burst from his rifle, earning a strangled gasp as a man’s torso suddenly had a new opening. The dead soldier fell back into the hole, and Charry hoped he’d take others with him on the way down.

With an earth mage, they could have gotten here pretty quickly. He must not have been a very good one. Could he have been an Apprentice? Possibly. If he had worked around the clock ever since they started probing the wards, he could have dug this tunnel even with just first-tier spells.

A group of soldiers rapidly managed to get a foothold in the open. At the same time, the defenders had also finally gathered their wits enough to start concentrating their fire on them, pinning them there and preventing an advance. Still, they were shielding the hole well, meaning more would come soon.

Charry aimed again and let his weapon sing as if it were an extension of himself. Another two men went down, their expression confused as if they couldn’t understand from where they had been shot.

That explains why his shield was so flimsy. If he exhausted himself digging the hole and then blew even more mana in opening the tunnel, he must have been running low. And it makes sense he was the first out if he was an Apprentice. He needed direct contact with the ground to get enough force for the burst. And his comrades didn’t care it would put him at risk.

The enemy shield wall was still growing, though significantly hampered by the constant gunfire coming their way from every angle.

At least a dozen soldiers lay dead, and a few others hadn’t managed to make it out of the hole, having been taken down by a stray shot.

Charry knew there must have been hundreds of them waiting to climb out, and with the low numbers at this gatehouse, the revolutionary forces couldn’t keep them pinned for too long.

Help was on the way, he knew. This much racket would have waken up the entire town. It was too different from the muted roars of cannon fire hitting the wards. Captain Rubeus would arrive soon. But was it soon enough?

Another shot cracked the helmet a tank wore, making a flower of blood bloom from where there once was an eye.

We need to do something to keep them here until the reinforcements can arrive. If they spread through the town, they’ll enter buildings and become impossible to root out before they can disrupt the wards. That’s likely their goal. If they can break into the town hall and break the protections there, they’ll be able to use their cannons freely and force us to surrender.

It was an annoyingly good plan. If he hadn’t noticed what they were trying to do before everything was in place, the town would have fallen before the defenders realized it had happened.

But he had noticed, and so the enemy was forced to abruptly change their plans and emerge into a disadvantageous position much sooner than they would have liked.

Charry noticed Anton moving toward the armory from the corner of his eye. The dwarf saw him looking and mouthed the word “cannon”, which was enough to draw a feral grin from him.

Now more reassured that someone was doing something useful, he concentrated on suppressing the enemy's advance.

By now, there were more than enough of them that they could begin to push away from the hole, but the relentless response from the nearby soldiers forced them to hunker down. They all knew what would happen should they lose here. Unfortunately, it couldn’t last forever.

One enemy emerged from the shield wall. He bore a well-polished plate of armor with runes carved on its surface and started pushing away from the hole and toward the inner town, bullets pinging off him harmlessly.

The two closest revolutionaries unsheathed their swords and charged him down, identifying his attempt to break through.

In a single, smooth motion, the two fell to the ground, their heads lopped off before they could even realize what was going on.

That has to be at least an Expert. Fuck, it might be a Master. No, what would a Master be doing here? He could have broken the wards in the time they spent bombing us. Fuck. I don’t know, but we need to stop him.

The presence of a significantly stronger warrior among them seemed to bolster the invaders because they let out a cheer and began to follow his tracks as he marched forward, unharmed by the hail of bullets coming his way and serving as a shield for those behind him.

The man was not moving towards him, but Charry still felt very strongly that allowing him to leave the area would be a terrible mistake.

Aiming for the gap between his helm and the rest of the armor, Charry powered up a shot. He held it in, feeling his blood thrum in his veins as he waited for the perfect moment.

More than once, he almost let go but didn’t at the last second, knowing he couldn’t afford to miss. But time was tight, and he couldn’t wait for too long.

Finally, just as the man cut down another of the defenders with almost contemptuous ease, Charry pulled the trigger.

Having fed the bullet significantly more mana than normal, the shot cut through the air in a fraction of a second.

It hit precisely at the juncture between gorget and helm, where a slip of mail could be seen.

The man was blown off his feet before he could swing his sword down upon another revolutionary, rolling on the ground for several feet until a piece of rubble stopped him.

Charry craned forward, desperately trying to see if he had gotten the kill, but felt all the air leave his lungs when, instead of a bleeding corpse, he saw him pick himself back up.

Where before he had looked contemptuous, his target was now furious. A choking aura exploded through the plaza, pressing down on everyone. The sheer intensity of it was enough that, for a moment, no one could move.

Then, with gritted teeth, Charry brought his rifle back into place and snapped another shot.

This time, it was halted before it could even reach the target by a shimmering blue barrier, which flickered unstably upon being hit.

“You made me waste it!” The man roared, long steps bounding away from the direction he had initially chosen, seemingly only interested in getting revenge.

Not wasting any time talking, Charry shot two more times before he got too close. The barrier finally gave way at the second bullet, but it was too late by then.

With mana flooding his system, Charry jumped back from a heavy overhand blow that split the stone ground, sending shards flying away.

“You are gonna pay for this, you slave scum!”

Dodging again by a hairsbreadth, Charry couldn’t help but feel he was being unfairly targeted. “If you hadn’t come here, it wouldn’t have happened, you know?” He quipped, which had the effect of making the very dangerous man even angrier.

Ah, I always knew I would die because of my mouth. I kind of hoped it was because I stole a pretty lady away from a noble, but I suppose dying for the cause of freedom is good, too.

Another long step brought the man too close for Charry to dodge, so he was forced to sacrifice his rifle to deflect the sword trying to bisect him.

Unfortunately, that only gave him enough time to dodge to the side and take two steps because he could feel the mana coalescing into a powerful skill.

BOOM!

It was also enough to bring the enemy warrior into Anton’s cannon’s way.

For all his enchanted armor and no doubt extraordinary resilience, the terrifying enemy was still mortal. His upper body disappeared into red mist while his sword and legs clattered noisily to the ground in the sudden silence.

Looking back, Charry saw the usually grumpy dwarf cheekily waving his way and that the enemy soldiers had frozen in surprise.

Predictably, that was when a horn was blown, signifying the arrival of the reinforcements.

And not a second too soon.

Being hailed as a local hero should have felt good. And it did, for the first couple of hours. Charry enjoyed the attention of the ladies and his comrades paying for a few beers, but after the initial rush, he was left only thinking about how close he had come to death and how he hadn’t minded it all that much.

Silence had finally fallen over the town of Margì. The night felt heavier than any he could remember.

“I would have thought I’d appreciate not having my hearing ruined by cannon fire, but since the bastards retreated, it feels like something is missing.” Rhea’s soft voice broke his musings, and Charry turned to see the woman pull a shawl over her bare shoulders, looking into the dark where there had once been the enemy camp.

“They retreated, but they cannot be too far away. Not knowing where they are means we can’t relax.” He explained though he didn’t believe it himself.

The carnage at the hole the enemy had opened had been enough to turn any man’s stomach. It was enough that even Captain Rubeus had seemed queasy, but they had been given no choice, and thus, hundreds of men had died fruitlessly trying to create a foothold in the town.

Charry allowed a small smile to grow as Rhea sat beside him, their shoulders touching. He was still unsettled by what had happened, but it had also reinforced his resolve. The enemy couldn’t be reasoned with. They would never leave the slaves be now that they had been freed.

And I’m not going back to that. Whatever I have to do, I’ll die free.

Chapter 49 - Responsibility and Growth - Oliver 5

Oliver frowned, glancing up at the darkening sky. Thunderclouds choked the sun and promised heavy rain. While the 1st and 2nd Revolutionary Army Corps were all made up of Journeymen by now, granting them enough strength to wade through mud for a whole day, it didn’t make it a pleasant experience.

Especially since the last communication they got from the 4th asked for their help clearing the area around Margì of the remaining royal forces.

Initially, he had thought it a waste of time. Surely, after being defeated so soundly, they would retreat toward Treon? But the scouts Sir Leonard had sent ahead reported that more than one group of renegade soldiers were hiding at the edges of the Darkwood.

That, unfortunately, meant they needed to be rooted out. One of the main strategic goals of their plan was to leave behind no pockets of resistance so that they could concentrate on fighting at the front lines. If they had to split their attention on multiple fronts, they’d waste all the accumulated momentum.

Thus, squads of twenty men each were created and ordered to scour the forest ahead of the main army to deal with the renegades.

Oliver frowned again. He was doing that more often these days since his mentor had started putting him in command. “Stop lollygagging and start scouting ahead. I want to return to the rendezvous point before the sun goes down and the predators emerge.” He instructed his men, who didn’t protest.

Watching the lone ranger flit through the trees and the regular soldiers try to keep up was amusing enough to break him from his foul mood.

It’s not so much that I don’t like this mission. I appreciate that Sir Leonard trusts me more, but the thought of hunting down people not looking for a fight… Well, I suppose I have the leeway to decide what to do with them. If they turn out to be simple levies forced to fight, I could even recruit them.

That felt more righteous. Yes, he’d hold judgment until he found these soldiers. It might even be that he wouldn’t need to spill blood at all.

Moving through the Darkwood was a skill in and of itself. It was taught to all children who demonstrated enough adventure lust to wander out of their village’s confines and was one of the few things Oliver had that reminded him of his father.

These days, he didn’t often think about the man. After the flight from the Void, he had been too busy working himself to the bone to bring some food to his family’s table, and once Sir Leonard took him in, training was all he thought about. Then came Belinda’s death and the revolution…

And yet, now that Oliver was given command of a squad of his own, he couldn’t help but think about his father. The man had been little more than a guardsman. Certainly capable of holding a sword, but only a Journeyman. Nothing special.

The sight of him fighting against the voidlings, bleeding profusely from cuts all over his body, panting and obviously outmatched, still never left Oliver’s mind.

His back was so large.

Comparing himself to the man wouldn’t help with his insecurities, but he still thought there was something to learn about that single-minded dedication to protecting his family.

“We found a group,” Esmeria, his squad’s ranger, whispered from his side. As always, she seemed to have made it a priority to startle him, though Oliver didn’t give her that satisfaction. After having been around Lady Amelia, he couldn’t be taken by surprise so easily.

He gave a curt nod and started circulating mana, not yet casting anything but preparing in case things went badly.

Around him, his men went through their own preparations. Lucy, the young wind mage he had fought at the lighthouse, gulped in fear, and Oliver gave Esmeria a look. The ranger sighed but nodded in agreement, positioning herself next to the girl in case she needed saving.

It wasn’t that Oliver didn’t think Lucy would do her job. After her initial freak-out, she had been more than ready to sign up with the revolution if it meant her slate would be clean and she’d be allowed to learn from some of the finest mages around.

But the girl still tended to lose her cool if things didn’t go according to plan. And he couldn’t afford to have her freeze in the middle of a battlefield, especially because she was a genuine talent. It would be a terrible waste for her to die before they conquered Treon.

Light, how have I become this callous? Is this the burden of leadership? I wouldn’t have valued a life against the utility it brought so quickly before.

Unfortunately, there was no time to contemplate that because they had reached the edges of a clearing, where Oliver could see several ragged men sitting around a spent campfire, seemingly doing nothing.

His squadmates looked to him for what to do, and he gestured for them to take position around the clearing. While he hoped for a peaceful resolution, it wouldn’t do to get careless. If it came to a fight, he’d finish it quickly.

“[Barrier of light] protect my form; let no missile breach; shield me from harm.” The spell took shape just in time, as an arrow bounced off his shield. It would have lodged in his brain had he been a second slower.

With a grim cast on his face, Oliver entered the clearing, revealing himself to the men huddled there.

“It’s a fucking kid!” One yelled, getting up to see what had caused his companion to stand up and release a shot.

Having already been attacked, Oliver was now much less inclined to think it could end without bloodshed, but he still tried to channel all his temple-given calm and poise.

“Good evening, gentlemen; I’m from the Revolutionary Army. You are surrounded. Please lay down your weapons and come quietly. If you make this easy, you won’t have anything to fear.”

All ten men had now stood up, though there still was some confusion. When they finally registered his words, they couldn’t help but laugh. “What, the Hero has gone through all the slaves, and he’s now sending kids? Is this a joke?”

Feeling his frayed temper worsen, Oliver channeled some mana into the air to press down onto the men in a trick learned from his mentor. “This is not a joke. You have been identified as royal army soldiers, and I’m giving you a chance to get out of this alive. Surrender, now.”

This time, there was no mistaking the threat in his words. While he might have looked quite young to their eyes, they could feel that he was serious in their bones. Such was the power of intent, even at its most basic level.

The man who had shot him looked around the clearing, assessing the situation. By the way his eyes stopped several times, Oliver believed he had identified at least some of the revolutionaries hidden around them.

Another man, whose face was red enough to hint at severe alcohol abuse, growled in annoyance, “What the fuck do you think you are, kid? Just because you bastards beat up some hick nobles from the ass end of nowhere, you think you can take all of Haylich?”

“I will not repeat myself. Surrender now. Lay down your weapons, and you’ll be spared. Do not, and you’ll be eliminated.” After delivering his ultimatum, Oliver subtly motioned for his squamates to prepare. They would need to act quickly if they wanted to overwhelm them.

Ten soldiers weren’t much in the grand scheme of things, mainly because he doubted a great powerhouse was hiding among the defeated remains of a broken advance force. However, the archer had been quick enough to draw that he still felt justified in his wariness.

Showing he was the smartest among the group, the man who shot him dropped the bow he was holding and smoothly unfastened his belt, where a dagger and several vials were attached.

The one who had first spoken turned to him in confusion, but the others had different ideas and immediately grabbed their weapons, making as if to charge at Oliver.

The subsequent fight was very short. A bullet of wind exploded the drunken man’s torso, while several rifle shots took down the others before they could get within striking distance.

Oliver then proceeded to unsheathe his sword, smoothly moving through the corpses to stand before the two remaining men. He lifted the edge of his blade until it rested against the neck of the last remaining soldier who had yet to surrender and smiled what he was sure was a terrible attempt at a reassuring grin. “Yield?”

As the trees thinned, the vast Revolutionary Camp opened before him. Tents and makeshift structures filled Oliver’s sight, a hive of activity as soldiers rushed about, reporting in from scouting missions or preparing for the next engagement. Fires crackled, sending up thin plumes of smoke, and the scent of cooking meat mingled with the earthy smell of the forest.

Oliver’s heart swelled with pride and apprehension as he approached Sir Leonard’s tent, evidenced by the golden banner fluttering in the breeze. The Grand Marshal was the epicenter of this organized chaos, directing everything with the calm authority of a seasoned commander.

“Sir Leonard,” Oliver called out as he entered the tent, saluting smartly. His mentor looked up from his maps and reports, stern face breaking into a proud smile.

“Ah, Oliver. Back already?”

Sir Leonard’s eyes gleamed with approval as he listened to the report. “You’ve done well. You’ve grown a lot in these past few weeks.”

Oliver felt a warm glow at the praise. “Thank you, sir. I couldn’t have done it without your training.”

Sir Leonard clasped his shoulder. “You’ve made me proud, Oliver. You’ve shown skill and wisdom in your decisions. You did the right thing in offering them a chance to surrender peacefully, just as you did in eliminating those that didn’t.”

Oliver felt his worries dissipating, replaced by a sense of clarity and purpose. Sir Leonard’s confidence in him was a balm to his anxious thoughts.

“Your group was the last to come back, and Amelia’s shadows have reassured me there is no one else hiding from us. Now that we’ve secured the area around Margì,” Sir Leonard said, his tone turning serious, “we must focus on the next objective. The first of the Great Slitherer’s children lies ahead.” With that, he gestured to a Sergeant who was pouring over a map of the area, and the man moved the parchment so Oliver could look at it.

“Our choices are going through the deep waters or Fort Genus. Some think we should look for a different point to wade the river, but we can’t leave enemies behind our supply lines. It would go against the doctrine.” The man said.

“I’m inclined to agree. Although taking the Fort won’t be easy, given its defensive position and the fact that we cannot risk destroying it if we want to use it to pass the river.”

Scratching his head, Oliver asked the question buzzing in his mind. His mentor had told him never to fear looking stupid, as plans could fall apart more than once because simple elements had been overlooked. “Couldn’t we just make a new bridge? I know we have the earth and stone mages to do it. Every time we set up camp, they move enough ground to make ten bridges of the size we need.”

Sir Leonard smiled, and the Sergeant coughed in amusement, “That would certainly solve our problems, but the Great Slitherer and its children are not simple rivers. Their waters are home to many elementals - among whom a King - who take great umbrage to anyone building atop them. Fort Genus resulted from a Spirit Summoner of ages past making a deal with them, and to go against it would give us too much trouble.”

“Ah, that would do it,” Oliver muttered.

Chapter 50 - Stubborn Old Men - Leonard 22

“Our scrying suggests that there's no massive army awaiting us within. To breach the gates, we’d have to overcome the wards. However, the only formidable resistance we should encounter is the old man himself,” Explained David, the young mage Leonard had spared on a whim. David had since dedicated himself to assisting the army’s divination mages in developing an intelligence apparatus separate from the rangers, Amelia’s, or Lia’s.

Leonard nodded, scratching his chin. The situation at Fort Genus was quite different from what he had encountered before. First, they weren’t facing an entire town, which needed to compromise between the width of its walls and the expense of keeping wards up. The Fort sitting above the river possessed protections strong enough that he couldn’t guarantee he’d be able to smash through them in one hit - before the countermeasures could engage. And if he went all out, he would surely destroy the entire construction, which would put them back at the starting point: without a way of crossing the water.

Some of the command staff Sergeants had gamed out a possible attempt to build a new bridge while keeping the local elementals busy elsewhere, but they couldn’t find a way to prevent them from holding a grudge afterward, which would mean having a significant new enemy behind their front lines.

Leonard was acutely aware of the potential consequences of a full-scale war with the progeny of an Elemental King - a Demigod-tier being. The thought of having to fight his way across the entire Great Slitherer was daunting. It was a war he didn’t need or want. This meant their focus was on finding a way to take Fort Genus without escalating the conflict.

There was also the fact that the building itself was positively ancient. The current occupants, House Genus, were a relatively new arrival, having been granted the lordship because their founder, Vikar Genus, was a paladin of significant renown who had served in the Whiteguard for eight decades before retiring.

That he had been given a place so far from proper civilization just went to show how contemptuously the Diet and Royal Court treated those who served them.

The old man was still alive too, and if Leonard wasn’t mistaken, was currently standing at the top of the rampart with a binocular, observing their movements.

“Thank you, David.” Leonard dismissed the boy. Now that he had a clearer picture of things, it was time to decide. And for all that he appreciated the hard work the young mage had put into learning as much as possible, he didn’t trust him enough to involve him in such high-level planning.

David immediately complied, saluting and exiting the command tent, which left Leonard with his staff, Gerard and Oliver, who were still pouring over the map.

“There isn’t much else to learn, unfortunately. We can either go up north and try to find a crossing there, which I doubt will be successful, or handle the cards we were given.”

His squire grunted in agreement. He had seemed perturbed since returning from his clean-up mission but was slowly going back to himself. Leonard would do his best to help him along the way, but he expected it wouldn’t be the last time Oliver would be exposed to upsetting situations. For all that he cared for him, shielding him from the horrors of wars would do him no favor.

“We might need to call him out.” Sergeant Jonathan, one of Gerard’s most trusted men, interjected. Seeing that he had their attention, he continued, “When it comes to entire towns, there are too many competing interests. No one can be seen negotiating with us unless they are in a truly desperate situation, and so far, we haven’t allowed them to realize how deep they were in.”

That made sense to Leonard, so he gestured for the man to continue.

“Fort Genus is a different situation altogether. We outnumber them so much that fighting must look foolish to the people inside, but we cannot allow them to sit within their wards and waste our time. The more time we allow General Locke to work, the better prepared he’ll be for us.” Again, that was something everyone understood.

“Get to the point,” Gerard cut in, earning a sheepish smile from his subordinate.

“Yes, sir. If our intel on Vikar Genus is correct, we should be able to bait him out of the fort. We can ask that he come to parlay with us, but breaking our word to attack him then would put us in a difficult position, diplomatically speaking.”

Ah, I get it now. Yes, that could work. Paladins of his generation are certainly old-fashioned enough to go for it. Interesting idea. It might actually work.

“This means that we need a way for him to come out willingly, which leads to his defeat and doesn’t go through treachery. The only way to conquer Fort Genus in a reasonable timeframe is to demand a duel.” Jonathan concluded, and while some of his colleagues scoffed at the notion anyone would abandon a strategically sound position to fight a duel, Leonard could see that Gerard had followed his same train of thought.

“What do we know about him? Not what the public knows. I want servant gossip, habits, and everything we can get our hands on. If that means what time he shits, include that too! Scour the nearby towns and villages for any bit of information!” The General barked, startling the staff, who hurried to obey his orders.

Leonard chuckled in amusement, getting up to leave. It’d be some time before a comprehensive report was compiled.

Leonard and Oliver stepped out of the command tent. Around them, the revolutionary forces were a hive of activity. Gerard’s handprints were all over, as efficiency was the name of the game.

Earth mages manipulated the ground with fluid motions, creating latrines and reinforcing defensive walls. Healers worked tirelessly in makeshift infirmaries, their hands glowing with restorative magic as they tended to the injured.

Healthcare is such an overlooked benefit in a world where a priest can solve cuts and illnesses instantly, yet it remains the realm of the rich most of the time. Especially the ex-slaves never had anyone to go to for the bruises and scrapes accumulated working in the fields. Here, they are encouraged to get themselves looked at whenever they return from a mission. Some might say it’s a waste, but it’s good training for the healers and increases the soldiers' loyalty.

A single fire mage, evidenced by the red patch on his arm, walked around the cooking area, tending to the coals and ensuring nothing spread to the rest of the camp. Water mages refilled canteens since the soldiers had been ordered not to approach the river yet. All in all, it was a clean, smooth operation.

“This is impressive,” Oliver remarked, gazing across the well-organized camp. “Things seem much better organized now than at the beginning.”

Leonard nodded, his expression thoughtful. “That’s always the case in war. Armies take a while to hit their stride, especially ones such as ours made up of an assortment of ex-slaves, adventurers, and actual soldiers. It took us a while to establish proper procedure, but it will only get better from here.”

As they walked, soldiers stopped to greet Leonard. He returned their salutes with a nod, acknowledging their respect without engaging in idle conversation. Once in a while, he made a point of greeting several people personally and asking about specific issues. One soldier, a grizzled veteran, saluted with a crisp snap.

“How’s your daughter, Sergeant?” Leonard asked, pausing to give the man his full attention.

The sergeant beamed with pride. “She’s doing well, sir. Just took her vows as an acolyte at the Temple in Thelma.”

“That’s excellent news,” Leonard replied, clapping the man on the shoulder. “You must be very proud.”

“Thank you, sir. I am.”

Once they had gotten far enough, Leonard turned to Oliver, “It might not seem that important, but establishing a fast mail service between the army and our towns is fundamental for morale. I know that man sent his letter less than a week ago. Things are running at full efficiency for the response to have already arrived.”

His squire hummed in surprise before turning to the side, hiding a guilty expression. Leonard didn’t need to ask to know that he hadn’t written to his mother. Luckily, Oliver was smart enough to realize this had been his way of gently reminding him and wouldn’t need a more direct scolding.

Finally, they reached the edge of the camp. From this vantage point, they could see Fort Genus, the sturdy castle of grey stone built atop a wide river. The fort’s walls rose high, formidable and imposing. Without magic, it would have been impossible to take with the current technology, but then again, it couldn’t have been built in the first place.

Leonard’s gaze was steady as he studied the stronghold.

“It looks like a regular castle,” Oliver observed, shading his eyes with his hand. “But I’m guessing it’s not as simple as it appears.”

“You’re right,” Leonard confirmed. “Fort Genus has formidable defenses. The wards are strong, and its strategic position over the river makes a direct assault costly, even should I lead the way. That’s why we’ll have to go with the duel plan to get through it.”

Oliver turned to his mentor, curiosity, and concern mingling in his eyes. “Do you think Vikar Genus will accept? He has everything to lose.”

Leonard’s eyes glinted as he stared at the top of the rampart, where he could see his target look back, “He doesn’t have a choice.”

———

Predictably, walking alone with a flag of truce away from his army had been enough to send the guards on duty into a frenzy. From where Leonard had stopped, he could hear some suggest they take this chance to eliminate him with the cannon, which admittedly was a better plan than opening the gates only to close them behind him that another put forward.

Luckily for them, the commanding officer wasn’t stupid enough to do either and sent someone to the castle proper to ask what they should do.

Leonard was left to wait under the early summer sun for a good half hour, but finally, the gates opened, and out came the man he was waiting for. Just as the reports had promised, he came alone, though he was astride a black warhorse and in full plate.

It would have been an intimidating sight if Leonard hadn’t trained with the paladins of the Whiteguard for years.

Vikar Genus was undoubtedly an old man with a long white beard and sagging skin, but there was strength in his frame still. In this world where the invisible System allowed people to retain their power well past their peak, it wouldn’t do to underestimate him.

Cold grey eyes stared him down, and Leonard could see his opponent take the measure of him.

“Thank you for coming out to speak,” he said, smiling slightly.

“You didn’t give me much chance, Hero. You almost made my men piss their pants.” Was the reply, setting the negotiation off to a good start. It almost made Leonard regret what would happen eventually.

“I won’t waste your time, then. I need to go through your fort to reach Treon, but I can’t leave you behind as a dagger pointed at my back. Either surrender or join us.”

The old paladin snorted harshly, showing his teeth, “And if I refuse both options?”

Leonard allowed a hint of his might to manifest. Just enough for the man to feel its pressure for a second without being threatening, “Then I’ll have to use force. I will demolish your castle brick by brick if I have to and kill everyone standing in my way while I do so.”

“I have never once in my career forsaken my duty. I stopped the barbarians at Death Pass more times than I can count. I killed necromancers, demon worshippers, and voidlings. I lost everything and rebuilt. I won’t abandon my post this time, either. I suppose that leaves us only a siege to look forward to.”

Just as the profile said he would. Leonard kept a smile from emerging and merely inclined his head in acknowledgment and prepared to make his offer. This might be his enemy, but he didn’t hold a grudge against him like he did for most nobles. He’d grant the old man a clean, honorable death if it came to that. “There is another option.”

Chapter 51 - Family Matters - Vikar Genus 1

The only sound heard through the dining room was the clinking of cutlery on plates. The slaves moved smoothly enough not to disturb the quiet, and though Vikar could tell his family was bursting with questions regarding what he had talked about with Leonard Weiss, they knew he wouldn’t answer until after the meal.

Vikar wouldn’t say that this was what he had envisioned for himself when he was still on active duty, fighting all sorts of creatures and invaders, but he wouldn’t complain either. King Vasily’s wisdom in granting him this old fort had been obscure back then, but it now seemed apparent that he had been given the duty to halt any insurgency from the east.

Life was easier back then. All I needed to know was that whoever braved the Death Pass had to be eliminated. The enemy was out in the open, not hiding in my house.

Purging the servants of those favorable to the rebellion had not been pleasant, but Vikar never shied away from doing his duty.

His children and grandchildren had questioned his wisdom then, saying that he was overreacting and that the Hero would be stopped long before he got to Fort Genus. They were silent now.

At least the slaves were still trustworthy. Theirs was an enforced loyalty, not the kind a free man would give to his country, but considering the army camped outside the castle, Vikar didn’t feel he had any room to complain. He had been in much worse situations with a lot less luxuries. Being able to dine with his family without fear of hidden blades in the night was already more than he had hoped for.

Not that he still didn’t keep the wards up and running. He had personally inspected the control room before dinner and ordered them to be topped off, just in case someone within the rebel camp went around their leader.

At the very least, Leonard Weiss has some manners. I have heard many rumors about him these past few months, but they don’t seem to correspond to the truth. Not that he doesn’t still deserve death. He did rebel against the crown and break the King’s peace. But then again, he’s an otherworlder. What else could we expect from someone like that?

Once the cheese course was served and the various jams that accompanied it were distributed, Vikar gestured for his personal servant to prepare the drawing room for a family meeting.

The man, who had once been his adjutant on the battlefield, smoothly moved out of the room, noticed only by Vikar’s oldest son and youngest granddaughter, much to his disappointment. Again and again, his failure to raise proper warriors was thrown in his face.

Once this mess is done, I’ll have to take things into my hands. I allowed Blanca to convince me my methods were too harsh and might have doomed the older generation, but I can still save the youngest.

Finally, the table was cleared, and Vikar stood up. “We’ll take this to the drawing room. Anyone is welcome to come, but know that once you enter, I’ll hold you responsible for your words and behavior.”

At his glacial words, more than one of his grandsons hesitated, confirming his belief that he needed to intervene heavily in their education. All of his children's consorts had the good sense of making themselves scarce, taking with them the youngest babes.

Vikar led his family to the drawing room, a spacious and comfortable area with several sofas and plush chairs arranged around a large table in the center. The table was dominated by a detailed map of the local area, showing Fort Genus and the surrounding terrain, with the space occupied by the rebel army delineated by a red piece of string. Soft candlelight flickered, casting a warm glow over the richly decorated room. The air was heavy with his family's unspoken questions and concerns, but they waited for him to grant them permission to speak.

Once everyone had settled, Vikar took his seat at the central armchair and looked over his family. His children and grandchildren stared back, a mix of fear, curiosity, and determination in their eyes.

“You may ask your questions,” Vikar finally said, opening the floodgates.

His firstborn, Janus, spoke first, his voice steady but urgent. "Father, what did you talk about with Weiss?”

Vikar met his son's gaze, "I agreed to a duel, scheduled for tomorrow. The outcome will decide the fate of Fort Genus.”

A collective gasp echoed through the room. Shock and disbelief were written on the faces of his family members. Some exchanged worried glances, while others seemed to wrestle with the fact that their fate was decided without their input.

“That means the reinforcements won’t arrive in time,” Janus muttered, more to himself than his father. “I don’t like this, but if it’s the only way…”

"Father," interrupted his youngest son, Marek, his tone urgent and desperate. "No matter what you’ve agreed, we should send another message to inform General Locke. We cannot be expected to hold an entire army by ourselves. And if you still believe this is the best course of action, they might send someone who can fight in your place.”

Vikar snorted harshly. “The good General has more than enough on his plate appeasing all the idiotic nobles of Treon. It’s surprising enough that he managed to send a few corps out to slow down the rebels in the first place. No, they wouldn’t arrive soon enough. And I will die before I let someone else fight for me.”

Marek clenched his fists, frustration etched on his face. "Then we’re doomed to fail! We cannot trust the word of a rebel leader. How can you believe he won’t ambush you once you are too far for our artillery to save you?”

Vikar's eyes narrowed, and his voice grew cold. "We do not abandon our honor, Marek. Not now, not ever. The duel is our best chance to protect the fort without unnecessary bloodshed. Leonard Weiss may be a rebel, but he is not without honor himself. His reputation demands he uphold his promise unless he wants everyone from the Serpent Sea to Ergh’Ath to know his word is worth nothing.”

“But what if you lose? What will happen to us?”

The question froze the entire room, and Vikar turned to see that it was Beatrice, his youngest granddaughter, who had spoken. He shouldn’t have been surprised; she was the only one with enough courage to say something like that to his face.

“If I lose, you never had a chance in the first place.”

His answer seemed enough to satisfy her, though many others didn’t like it. Vikar couldn’t have cared less. If Leonard Weiss was powerful enough to defeat him on his home turf, he would also be able to batter down the wards and demolish the castle. The promise that his family would be treated with respect in case of his loss also helped sweeten the deal.

Of course, Vikar had no intention of losing. He’d do his best to show the young buck why challenging the old stag was never a good idea. The small taste of power the Hero had given him had been enough for Vikar to understand that he was likely facing a Champion - not something anyone with a sane mind would wish for - but it wouldn’t be the first of his kind he had felled.

Granted, the Orc Lord he had killed thirty years ago had been heavily injured by the time he got to it, but Vikar had only grown stronger since. He might still be only a Master, but experience and age could bridge any gap.

“Father,” Raoul, his second son, spoke in frustration. “Why don’t we just hold inside the wards? The water elementals will prevent any attempt to cross, and I don’t see how they will be able to deal with the fortifications. We can last until General Locke arrives.”

Vikar’s expression hardened, his eyes narrowing. “Do you think I haven’t considered that, Raoul? It is exactly because of the water elementals that Leonard Weiss needs to go through us. If we force his hand, he might resort to tactics that could lead to the destruction of the fort. Just look outside! His army built a massive camp in a single day. They are prepared for a siege, and I will not risk them tearing down what I have protected for decades.”

Raoul fell silent, gritting his teeth.

Suddenly, one of his grandsons, brash young Tiberius, angrily beat his fist on the table. “If that’s the case, why don’t we send an assassin to kill the Hero in the night? One swift strike could end this farce. The rebels will collapse the moment he’s taken out.”

The room fell into a stunned silence. Vikar’s face contorted with fury, and he moved with speed far surpassing what anyone else present could follow. In an instant, his hand struck Tiberius across the face with a slap that echoed through the room, sending him sprawling on the ground.

“You fool!” Vikar hissed, his eyes blazing with anger. “You would dishonor our name with such cowardice? While I might lose and die tomorrow, I will never taint myself or our family in that way. An assassin’s blade is a tool for the weak and the desperate, and anyone who would resort to such treachery would find themselves facing my wrath, family or not.”

Tiberius clutched his cheek, his eyes wide with shock and fear. The rest of the family looked on in silence. They knew better than to intervene. “I have given my word,” Vikar continued, his voice now cold and measured. “And I will uphold it. Leonard Weiss may be a rebel, but he has shown more honor than many of the nobles I have dealt with. I will face him in battle, and I will do so with my head held high. If I fall, I expect each of you to honor my decision. Our agreement is that he’ll be given passage but that you won’t be harmed.”

“If you die, we won’t have a choice anyway. Our stores of mana crystals are not enough to keep the wards active under cannon fire for long, and the ancient protections that run on the river’s mana wouldn’t answer to any of us.” Beatrice cut in irreverently, flipping a lock of hair back. “It was always going to come to a fight between you two. This is just a way of preventing anyone from interfering.”

Vikar grunted in agreement, glad that at least someone’s brain was still working.

A moment of silence followed as everyone tried and failed to look unworried. The stakes were very high, and Vikar could feel his blood warm at the thought of the coming fight.

Ever since he had retired - more on request from his superiors to allow the new generation time on the field than out of his own choice - he had gone through the motions of civilian life, but it only took one chance to go back to the battlefield for him to start feeling like his old self again. The Incursion never got close enough for him to justify leaving his holdings unprotected.

And if I were to die tomorrow, it’d be a much better end than old age. I’m not afraid of death. Frailty is my only enemy.

“How good are your chances of winning?” Marek finally asked, breaking the spell.

Vikar stared at his son, for once not dismissing him. The boy was arrogant and slothful, but there was a hint of cunning in him. Watching his father be cut down may be enough to draw it out.

“Weiss will be running high after the easy victories he collected so far, and he’s familiar with the tactics of the Whiteguard. He’ll think he knows what to expect.” Was his answer, and he could see understanding in most of those around him.

Vikar didn’t think he’d be able to win in a straight fight, but he still had a few aces up his sleeve, and if the Hero took him lightly, he’d pay for it with his life.

Chapter 52 - Some Things Can Only End One Way - Leonard 23

“You know, I’m perfectly capable of putting my armor on by myself,” Leonard said amusedly.

Oliver kept fretting around him, carefully polishing every piece until it shined and strapping them on, batting away Leonard’s halfhearted attempts to help. Neer smirked at him from the side.

“I never get to do actual squire stuff. Let me have this,” The boy grumbled, critically eyeing the magical metal as if it owed him money.

With a sigh, Leonard decided it wasn’t a fight worth having. He knew Oliver trusted him, more than anyone else probably, but now that the time to get ready for the duel was coming, he was succumbing to nerves.

Leonard wasn’t fussed about it. He respected Vikar Genus for his long career and dedication to his duties, but he was also more than certain he’d be able to handle everything the man could throw at him, especially since he didn’t seem the type to do anything underhanded.

Not that he hadn’t prepared some insurance should his assessment be wrong. Belinda’s death had stripped him of that naivety. He wouldn’t allow anyone to do what was done back then. That sense of pure helplessness still haunted him to this day.

“I still don’t get why he agreed to this. He must know you are stronger than him. It reeks.”

Leonard patted Oliver’s hand reassuringly, “So far, you’ve only encountered the worst example of nobility. The scum that takes from those they should protect, that suckle all the resources for themselves like parasites. But nobles are not unidimensional. There are various types, and while the good doesn’t justify the bad - and Vikar Genus is not even the best noble - we should treat them as they are rather than what would be convenient for them to be.”

Seeing that the message hadn’t arrived, given Oliver’s wrinkled nose, he tried again, “Vikar Genus, like most martial nobles, is a hard man with little compassion in his heart, and yet he’s also the kind of person willing to walk to his death without hesitation if it means adhering to his principles. He’s not good. He won’t help his people beyond what is requested of him, but he’s also not evil. An old paladin like him who fought for decades in the Death Pass must have seen the worst humanity can offer. He’s steeped in blood, which is why he clings so hard to duty and propriety. Those are the easiest things to use to distinguish the civilized from the barbaric.”

“It still sounds stupid to me. If he was really honorable, he would have come out of his castle to help us after the Incursion. It’s impossible he didn’t know the condition the southern towns were in.” Oliver countered, closing the last strap of his gloves.

“There is a simple answer to that. They weren’t his jurisdiction.” Leonard laughed at the boy’s incredulous look, “Yes, that’s enough for him. He took care of the few people that call him their lord and served as a bulwark between the area overrun by the Void and Treon’s region. No one among the local aristocrats would ever dare say he didn’t do his duty.” Neer snorted harshly but didn’t interrupt, allowing Leonard to conclude his lesson.

“Then it’s their entire logic that’s faulty. How can anyone consider themselves righteous when they allow so many to die in misery?” At Leonard’s knowing look, Oliver blinked and then released a sound of realization, “Which is another way aristocrats show they are rotten from the inside. If even the best examples of their values are insufficient, the entire system must be scrapped.”

Leonard smiled proudly and stood up, reaching over to pat the boy on his head. Amused, he allowed Oliver to duck before walking over to where Dyeus was stashed and clipping it to his belt.

“Alright, enough chatting. I have a duel to win.”

The wind blew over the open field, rustling the grass and creating tiny waves on the river’s surface. A light cloud cover obscured the summer sun, granting the two duelists protection from the heat.

Leonard walked with measured steps toward the middle of the field, his polished armor gleaming under the muted rays. Behind him, the Revolutionary army stood at parade in neat ranks, their camp having been removed in a show of support for their Grand Marshal, implying they thought it impossible for him to lose. The disciplined silence was oppressive. Thousands of eyes stared down the enemies of the Revolution, showing just how committed they were.

On the opposite side, the gates of Fort Genus were open, and the entire household watched with bated breath. Vikar Genus, clad in old-school paladin armor, stood waiting. His expression was grim, but a gleam in his eyes told Leonard the old man wasn’t counting himself out yet.

The contrast between the two was stark: Leonard, the youthful Hero bringing new ideals and significant change, and Vikar, the seasoned veteran who had dedicated his life to his land and duty, who’d put his life on the line to keep things as he thought they should be.

As Leonard approached, Vikar inclined his head slightly, a gesture of respect. Leonard returned the greeting, acknowledging the gravity of the moment.

“Sir Genus,” Leonard began, his voice carrying across the field. With this many witnesses no one would dare say the stakes were not clear, but it always paid to be careful, “We stand here today to settle our differences honorably. The terms, as we’ve discussed, are clear. If I win, my army will gain passage through Fort Genus, and your household will be taken as noble prisoners, treated with the honor befitting your station. Should you prevail, we will withdraw and leave your lands in peace.”

Vikar nodded, his expression unchanging. “Indeed, the terms are clear. The victor will be decided through death or complete incapacitation. Let there be no misunderstanding. I will personally strike down anyone who attempts to interfere with the results.”

With a final nod of agreement, the two men took their positions. Leonard studied his opponent carefully. Vikar’s armor was traditional but meticulously maintained. His stance was firm, his grip on his sword steady. There was no tremor of old age, no hesitation. If this was a duel between equals, there would have been a real chance he’d have died. Leonard could see the determination etched into every line of his face. The old paladin was ready to fight to the death if necessary, and Leonard knew he had to be equally committed, if only out of respect.

There was no need to wait to begin as there was no impartial arbiter that could be called, but Leonard still allowed his opponent the first move.

The old man shot forward, sword glowing with Holy mana in a decapitating strike intended to end the duel immediately.

Leonard allowed the weapon to pass harmlessly by his side, Light bubbling up into his limbs to accelerate his perception of time.

Just as Vikar turned around, [Anointment] and [Halo of the Righteous] settling over him to grant supernatural strength, Leonard took Dyeus out of its sheath. The Sky Blade’s very nature as a divine artifact made it so that any faith-based energy that came into contact with it would disperse, ceding to its much greater rank, but Leonard actively prevented this effect from taking place. This duel wouldn’t be won because of who had the better equipment.

The two combatants clashed in the middle of the field, and a shockwave exploded from the point of collision.

He’s enjoying this. I might have to up the ante a bit if he has the time to grin so widely.

Using his greater size, Leonard pushed down, forcing Vikar to disengage lest he be forced on one knee. The paladin then pivoted, bringing a rotating hand forward with the momentum, which was slapped away before it could touch Leonard’s armor.

By the hissing of the air around it, he was able to deduce that [Corrosive Touch] had been used, which would make sense as it was an old favorite of the Whiteguard stationed west to fight the barbarians who so enjoyed fist-fighting.

Not wanting to leave the initiative to his opponent any longer, Leonard feigned a grab for the extended limb, which the old man facilitated by stepping forward, almost offering it, only to bring his sword to bear once again in a smooth movement.

Vikar escaped the predicament by exploding the ground below his feet with a blast of unfocused mana, rolling in the air to reorient himself. Leonard didn’t allow him the time to get his bearings, and the moment his opponent touched down - he wasn’t foolish enough to present an opportunity to leverage the fall - attacked again with heavy strikes.

Vikar handled it better than he thought, redirecting enough strength to avoid being thrown around by his superior strength, though it took all his skill and attention, as he couldn’t find a way to disengage.

By now, the lush field around them had become barren. Leonard was tangentially aware that the sheer amount of mana they were outputting was enough to kill a civilian through simple exposure and felt grateful he had insisted the army stay back.

Not seeing a need to prolong the fight longer than necessary, he stepped up the tempo. His sword, already a blur of deadly motion, became invisible to the observers. Vikar let out a roar of frustration, pushing even more mana into his buffing spells and deliberately overcharging them.

Leonard was honest enough to recognize that the old man deserved his fame. Even with a significant disparity in raw power, he kept pulling tricks and skills out of his bag to last a little longer.

While he himself had used [Halo of the Righteous] on thousands of targets at once - something the teachers of the Whiteguard considered all but impossible - he didn’t know if he could push the spell to such heights for a single target. He had never needed an enhancement of that level, after all, but it was still impressive to see a master at work.

Unfortunately, it couldn’t last forever. Slowly, the spells began to flicker under the strain, their underlying framework warped too far from its origin and kept together only by sheer stubbornness. Leonard could tell that the old man still had mana to spare, but the pace at which he was going wasn’t sustainable for long.

“This is over.” He said, even as his strikes were redirected or barely avoided. He could have upped the ante again. He could have begun casting with his free hand to overwhelm his opponent in a flash, but he was enjoying the sword fight and thought it would be a pity to have to kill such a talented fighter.

“It isn’t over until I die,” Vikar growled back, and even the action of speaking took enough from him that Leonard could have slipped a strike to his neck and ended it.

“Surrender and join me,” Leonard replied determinedly. In a movement significantly faster than those before, he stepped forward into Vikar’s space, avoided the expected ray of Light that burned the air, leaving a flaming trail in the sky, and brought Dyeus down in a heavy blow. He didn’t slow it as much this time, deciding that if he was forced to kill the man, he’d first draw out everything he could do.

As he expected, Vikar responded to the attack with a speed far surpassing what he had shown so far. Leonard grinned and began attacking with much more vigor.

The two clashed against each other for several more minutes, Leonard not going beyond the simplest spells and focusing entirely on swordplay. The old paladin wasn’t so restrained, ranging from elemental magic meant to destabilize Leonard’s footing to conjuring a hail of holy rays from behind, which he used to go for the kill rather than regain his breath. The cuts he accumulated as he desperately fought also kept healing, showing just how good he was at manipulating the Light. Almost a century of use had made him an absolute terror.

By the end of it, Leonard was full-on grinning. It had been a long time since he had such a good fight. He hadn’t used all his power - nowhere close to it - but his personal skill, yes, that he had put it all to use.

Out of respect, he didn’t keep the fight going once he saw his opponent falter. He delivered the fatal blow, cutting Vikar Genus from shoulder to hip with the Sky Blade - which guaranteed there would be no coming back. While Leonard had limited his usage to avoid tainting the fight, his sword wouldn’t allow a lesser user to heal from a strike meant to kill.

Watching him freely bleed out with a smile on his face, Leonard didn’t bother asking again if he wanted to surrender. He wouldn’t disrespect the old man like that.

“It’s over,” He declared, voice rumbling over the silent field, “I have won!”

Chapter 53 - Sacrifices - Amelia 7

Amelia carefully assessed the men standing at attention before her. These were the best she could gather from her conquered territories, and while they might not match her exacting standards of power, she was confident in their loyalty and dedication.

Young humans who had lost everything were always among the most malleable, especially when their anger and frustration could be directed to a real evil. Amelia wasn’t above using her looks to secure their initial acceptance into her little training program, and after that, a bit of good old-fashioned indoctrination did the rest.

She hadn’t even needed to fake crime scenes or twist the facts this time! Count Pollus’ vanguard had been thorough enough in their extermination of the villages which showed even a hint of revolutionary sentiment that her trainees were able to find all the motivation they needed.

Of course, she couldn’t send them off to a suicide mission without instilling a glimmer of hope. It was a necessity, a lifeline that could keep them going in the face of adversity. And it was the truth.

“I have finally tracked down the squad responsible for the massacre at Riverbed. There doesn’t seem to be any reinforcement in the surrounding area right now, and we’re unlikely to have another shot at them like this. I believe they are moving to rejoin the main army. If we let them, we’ll lose our chance.”

By the hate smoldering in their eyes, she doubted anyone would refuse the mission. That was another thing she had to work around. Forcing people to do her bidding wouldn’t be a good look with Leonard, no matter how much easier it would make her life, and so Amelia had been flexing her skills as an orator to convince people it was their idea in the first place. That what they did aligned with her original plans was only a happy coincidence.

“This is not a mandatory mission. There is a very real chance of dying, especially since I will only be able to offer limited support. Our main force will start moving towards Volten soon, and I’ll be needed to ensure safe passage through the Darkwood since the coastline is too open. I will not hold it against anyone if they decide against participating.” No one moved. The interesting fact about humans was that once societal expectations reached a certain weight, the vast majority of them would bend rather than break with the rest, even if it meant walking into certain death. Especially when there were significant benefits attached to those expectations.

Amelia always ensured the elite squad was treated accordingly to their station. Children admired them. Young women swooned at their passage. The regular soldiers looked up to them. It was an intangible trap but no less inescapable for it.

Once she was sure no one would get cold feet at the last moment, Amelia gave the men the specifics and dismissed them. They deserved one last night of relaxation before they did their duty.

Their steps were unnaturally silent, muffled by the shadows that seemed to pool at their feet. Their eyes could see perfectly, even through the darkness of the night.

No beast barred their passage, spooked by something they couldn’t fully comprehend.

The elite squad moved undisturbed through the furthest reaches of the Darkwood west of Volten. They had all sworn a pact upon being accepted by their Lady that they would see her dream of liberation achieved. That she would lead them to get their vengeance against those who had taken so much from their land was only a bonus.

After marching through a dozen villages with little to no resistance, the enemy had set camp outside the forest, not afraid to be seen. The few who had dared oppose them so far had been barely more than Apprentice farmers, armed only with scythes and rough iron tools.

If they believed that to be all the Revolution had in store for them, they’d be up for a rude awakening.

Amelia’s shadows enveloped the men like a cloak, muffling the sounds of their movement and blending them seamlessly into the darkness. The forest's edge gave way to an open field where the Royalist camp sprawled under the night sky, campfires flickering like distant stars.

The squad paused at the forest's edge, scanning the target. To their dismay, the enemy numbers were larger than expected. Roughly five hundred soldiers compared to the expected three hundred. Some milled about on guard duty, while others rested in tents. Amelia’s intel had been thorough but a few days old, and it seemed the Royalists had bolstered their ranks in the meantime. Despite this, the squad's resolve did not waver. They would do their duty for the fallen at Riverbed and all others who had suffered at the hands of the nobles.

Without waiting any longer than necessary, they began their infiltration. Shadows danced around their forms, granting them the cover they needed. They slipped past sentries, unseen and unheard, their movements as fluid as water. The camp’s layout opened to them as they moved deeper in.

The squad split into pairs, each assigned to a specific section. The first targets were the sleeping soldiers in the outer tents. A swift slice to the throat, a hand over the mouth to muffle any sound, and another royalist life was snuffed out.

As the assassinations continued, the squad’s confidence grew. Each kill was precise, and each move was calculated. But fate, as it often did, had other plans. A half-asleep soldier stumbling away from the latrines caught sight of the shadows moving as a tent flapped open. His eyes widened, and before the nearest revolutionary could silence him, he let out a terrified scream.

“INTRUDERS!”

The camp erupted into chaos. Soldiers scrambled to their feet, reaching for weapons and shouting orders. The element of surprise was lost, and the quiet mission turned into a desperate struggle for survival.

The elite squad fought fiercely, their training and determination driving them forward. They were all Journeymen, and some were even close to becoming Experts. One-on-one, they were worth three royalists.

Amelia's shadows provided some cover, but the sheer number of enemies quickly overwhelmed them. Blood sprayed in the moonlight, and the once-quiet night was filled with the clang of steel and the cries of the dying.

Realizing they were trapped, the squad’s mindset shifted. If escape was impossible, they would make their stand here, taking as many of the nobles’ dogs with them as they could. The fight became frenzied, each revolutionary embracing their rage and sorrow, striking with wild abandon.

Blood from the two factions mingled on the trampled earth as the elite squad fought with an almost animalistic ferocity. Amidst the melee, the leader of the elite squad, a young man named Fred, who had once served in the Tidal Creek town guard and had cut his teeth against the Incursion, clashed blades with the royalist commander, who was a young noble with long blonde hair and icy blue eyes. He wielded a rapier with supernatural grace. His movements were fluid and precise, which looked out of place next to the brutal, unrefined combat surrounding him. Fred recognized his skill immediately and braced himself for a difficult fight.

Their swords met with a ringing clash, the enemy’s rapier darting and weaving with incredible speed. Fred parried and countered, his longsword moving in powerful arcs. Yet, despite his strength and experience, he was driven back, step by step. The shadows came to his aid more than once, allowing him to dodge what should have been skewering blows with only minor cuts.

The commander’s moves were calculated and precise. A feint to the left, a quick thrust to the right – Fred barely deflected the blows in time, only to find himself in an unfavorable position, with his left side blocked by a tent. A shadow tugged him away before his head could go flying.

Fred gritted his teeth, adjusting his grip. He feigned a retreat, drawing the commander in, then lunged forward with a mighty swing. The noble sidestepped gracefully, his rapier flashing out to pierce Fred’s shoulder too fast for help to come. Pain flared, but Fred refused to give in. He roared, swinging wildly, forcing the commander to take a few steps back.

Around them, the battle raged on. Revolutionaries sold their lives dearly, each determined to take down as many royalists as possible. Jaren, a rogue with a knack for stealth attacks, leaped from behind tents and drove his dagger into the neck of an officer, only to be impaled by a spear moments later. Nearby, Mara, a fierce adventurer, held off three soldiers with her twin blades, cutting them down one by one before a sword to the back ended her life.

Amelia observed the unfolding carnage through her shadows fifty miles away. Despite having known what would happen once she gave them this mission, her heart ached for her men. It was surprising in a way. She had believed herself free of such weakness. And yet, she didn’t interfere beyond making sure enough enemies died to send a message.

With the royalists having certain proof that a significant force of rebels was operating near Volten, threatening to take the third largest settlement in the duchy and possibly using it as a staging ground to assault Hassel, their focus would inevitably shift to securing Hetnia’s eastern coast, giving Leonard the crucial time he needed to reach Treon.

Back in the fray, Fred’s strength was waning. The commander’s relentless assault left him battered and bleeding. With a final, desperate effort, he swung his sword in a wide arc, hoping to catch his opponent off guard. His opponent dodged effortlessly, stepping inside Fred’s guard. His sword flashed, and Fred felt a cold, sharp pain in his chest.

The world seemed to slow as he staggered, the rapier buried deep in his heart. He looked into the noble’s icy eyes, seeing no trace of emotion. Fred tried to bring his sword down one last time with a final, defiant roar, but his strength failed. The commander withdrew his blade, and he collapsed to the ground, his life slipping away.

The royalist commander stood over Fred’s body, surveying the battlefield. The revolutionaries were dying, but not without a fight. His cold gaze swept over the chaos, calculating the cost of this unexpected skirmish.

To him, Amelia knew, this would look like a failed assault. It wouldn’t be hard to extrapolate that a commando of the level she had sent required significant resources to build and so couldn’t have been too far from the main army. Even though they had failed in their purpose, they had extracted a bloody toll. The royalists couldn’t afford to stay in the open. They’d need to march back to the Hassel, and once he was informed of what had happened, Amelia knew Count Pollus would move his army east to crush the rebellion around Volten.

She took no joy in the deaths of her men. Even now, watching them go down one by one, throwing themselves onto lances and swords just to kill one more enemy, filled her with unexpected pride.

But this was a negligible loss on the chessboard of the great game. Indeed, the moment she confirmed that it would lead to her desired outcome, she could even consider it a win.

Once the last of her men died, Amelia retreated her senses, the unnatural darkness dispersing without a trace. Only one Nightstalker remained behind, hidden in the commander’s shadow, from where it would observe and report.

Opening her eyes, Amelia sighed. She got up to pour herself a goblet of Lantean wine she had requisitioned from a noble’s mansion and took a moment to remember the men who had died for their sacrifice.

The moonlight, filtering through the open flap of her tent, hit her eyes just so, granting them an unnatural glow. Her lips opened, and she swallowed, savoring the floral, slightly tannic red.

“Thank you for your service,” She whispered.

Chapter 54 - Making the Best Out Of The Worst - Charry 3

How did it come to this?

Charry wouldn’t say he was a good person. He certainly wasn’t evil, but he didn’t think himself a paragon of the light akin to the Hero.

But even he could tell that what they were doing to Woodsman’s Town was fucked up.

Yes, they had put up a lot more resistance than any other settlement before them, and it was true that the slave population here was significantly larger than they had expected. Walking through the pens where humans, hobgoblins, and other races were kept like animals had been enough to snuff out any sympathy he might have had towards the defenders, but Charry didn’t think that gave them free rein to loot and pillage the town like they were doing.

In the chaos of the battle, he had been separated from Captain Rubeus, but it didn’t take a genius to realize this couldn’t have happened without the man’s approval.

Woodsman’s Town was a large settlement at the western reaches of the Darkwood. Made of timber buildings, the fires the revolutionaries started to burn a hole through the wooden palisade had spread over the rest of the town rapidly.

Not all houses were made equal, of course, since the wealthier, western part didn’t burn. Alchemical treatment of the wood, if Charry had to guess.

The thick, cloying smoke clung to him, making breathing difficult. It filled his lungs with every inhalation, a constant reminder of the destruction around him. Even hiding in untouched buildings, he couldn’t avoid the knowledge of what was happening outside. The smell of burning wood and flesh mingled nauseatingly in the air, searing his senses.

Everywhere he looked, revolutionary soldiers ransacked homes, smashing windows and kicking in doors. They tore through belongings, pocketing anything of value. The cries of the innocent - children wailing for their parents, women screaming in terror - echoed through the streets.

In one house, he saw a soldier dragging a wealthy woman by her hair, her face a mask of pain and fear. Another soldier rifled through a chest of drawers, pulling out jewelry and coins, his eyes gleaming with greed. Charry felt bile rise in his throat. This wasn’t liberation. This was madness.

As he passed another burning building, he saw a group of slaves, recently freed, huddled together in confusion and fear. Their freeing should have been a moment of joy, but it was marred by the chaos surrounding them. He approached them, trying to offer comfort, but his words felt hollow, meaningless amidst the carnage.

“We’ll get you to safety,” he said, his voice strained. “Just stay together.”

The slaves nodded, but their eyes were empty, their spirits broken. It would take a while before they could start to believe again, and they certainly weren’t being helped by the carnage around them.

As he continued through the town, Charry’s thoughts churned. The Revolution was supposed to bring about a better world, one where people were free from oppression. He wouldn’t say that the 4th Corp had betrayed its principles, not yet, but they were undoubtedly quickly sliding away from righteousness.

In the distance, he saw a young boy, no older than six, standing before a burning house. Tears streaked his soot-covered face as he called out for his mother. Charry’s heart ached, and he rushed over, scooping the boy into his arms.

“It’s okay, I’ve got you,” he whispered, trying to soothe the child’s cries. But even as he spoke, he knew his words were inadequate. There was no comfort to be found in this hell.

The boy clung to him, sobbing uncontrollably. Charry looked around, desperate to find a safe place, but there was none. The town was a war zone, every corner a potential death trap.

He spotted a group of revolutionaries standing over a fallen noble, their swords bloody. One of them looked up, meeting Charry’s gaze. There was a wildness in his eyes, a hunger for violence that made Charry’s skin crawl.

I am no stranger to killing, and I have little doubt that man deserved what was coming to him, but I wonder if the man who ended him cared at all whether the act was right or wrong.

Charry took a deep breath, steeling himself. He had to do something - anything - to restore a semblance of order. He couldn’t stand by and watch as the chaos consumed Woodsman’s Town and its people.

“Anton!” he shouted as he spotted his dwarf squadmate rifling through a wealthy house, a bag of silverware and jewelry clutched in his hands. Anton, with his perpetually grumpy expression, looked up in surprise.

“Charry? What in the deepest pits are you doing with a kid?” Anton grumbled, though there was a hint of guilt in his eyes.

“We need to get these people out of here, now! The whole town’s going to burn down at this rate!” Charry grabbed his friend by the arm, pushing the child up so that he could hold him with a single hand, and pulled the dwarf away from the looted treasures.

Anton opened his mouth to argue, but Charry cut him off. “This is wrong, Anton. You know it. We are better than this.”

Reluctantly, Anton nodded, dropping the stolen goods. “Fine. Let’s do it your way.”

“Rupert!” Charry called out his other squadmate, who was emerging from the house with his arms full of expensive fabrics. “We need to evacuate the civilians and ex-slaves. Now.”

The man looked confused for a moment but gave up much quicker than the dwarf. “Alright, alright. Lead the way, Sarge.”

Charry quickly gathered more of his fellow soldiers, those who hadn’t succumbed to the madness, bullying them with his rank when needed or even directly threatening their manhood if he found them in compromising positions, though luckily, no one had actually fallen that low, and began organizing the evacuation.

He directed the freed slaves and townspeople away from the burning buildings, guiding them toward the southern entrance of the town. Even to him, who had the benefits of a higher blessing, the air was hardly breathable, and the heat from the flames was nearly unbearable, but Charry pressed on, determined.

“Keep moving!” he shouted, urging the civilians forward. “Stay together and head south!”

The cloying smoke made it hard to see, but he could make out the frightened faces of the people he was trying to save. Mothers clutched their children, old men and women shuffled forward, and the newly freed slaves looked around in bewilderment. The cries of the children were heartbreaking, but Charry knew he had to stay focused.

Once he had corralled a significant number of people and left them under the watchful eyes of a couple of dozen loyal soldiers, he turned back towards the burning town. He couldn’t leave without finding Captain Rubeus and ensuring the evacuation was complete.

As he made his way back through the chaos, he saw the devastation in full. More houses were collapsing under the weight of the flames, and the entirety of the slave pens had disappeared. Charry prayed to the Light he had gotten everyone.

The sounds of battle had mostly faded, replaced by the crackling of fire and the occasional scream.

I genuinely have no idea why they resisted so hard without a significant force to defend them. There isn’t even a garrison here! The town militia was all they had, which wasn’t more than a hundred ill-trained people. They were barely enough to keep the slave population under control! I don’t have time for this now, but something is not right.

Once the revolutionaries had broken through the enchanted palisade - that did not even have a rudimentary ward to protect from cannon fire - the battle had been over, but the fierce resistance of the town militia and the chaos of the fires spreading had destroyed the 4th’s discipline. It was enough of a shitshow that Charry was sure, when word got back to the Grand Marshal, that they’d be all sent back to training if heads didn’t fall.

Passing by the western gate, Charry’s attention was drawn to a series of distant lights. At first, he thought a spark from the inferno around him might have drifted with the wind, but as he watched, he realized there was more than one fire - and they were moving.

Ah, that’s why they weren’t inside.

A horrible speculation took over his mind. What if the loyalists had deliberately left Woodsman’s Town undefended so the revolutionaries would enter it and be trapped? Had it all been expected from the beginning? How could no one have seen it coming?

He then grabbed his spiraling thoughts and forcefully halted them. This was not helping. He needed to call for a retreat immediately.

“Enemy at the gates! ENEMY AT THE GATES! Withdraw!” Charry bellowed, his voice cutting through the night. “The enemy is coming! We need to get out of here!” His warning echoed through the burning streets, reaching the ears of those still capable of hearing. Some soldiers looked up, confused and somewhat dazed from the revelry, but Charry’s urgency spurred them into action.

He sprinted through the town, grabbing any revolutionaries he could find. “We need to pull back!” he yelled at a group of soldiers rifling through a burned-out building. “The enemy is almost here!”

“What?” one of them, a burly man with a scar across his cheek, asked, incredulous. “But we’ve taken the town!”

“Not for long!” Charry snapped. “This whole place is a trap. Get the slaves out and retreat to the southern entrance. Now!”

The soldiers hesitated for a moment, then, seeing the determination in his eyes, began to move. Charry continued his frantic run through the town, alerting as many of his comrades as he could. Whenever he saw someone looting or aimlessly wandering, he pulled them back to reality, urging them to prioritize the evacuation.

Grabbing as many civilians as he could along the way, Charry pushed them towards the southern entrance. He couldn’t save everyone, but he realized that most of those remaining were freemen who would be in no immediate danger from the royalists. The ex-slaves, however, faced the grim possibility of being chained up again. The thought spurred him to move faster.

I can’t save everyone. They must be here by now. We need to get out.

With a heavy heart, Charry began running toward the southern gate, having done what he could. There, he was met by a mass of people, including the majority of the 4th, who had pulled themselves together and began organizing a retreat.

The fields outside Woodsman’s Town were shrouded in darkness as the march began, and the only light came from the burning buildings behind them. The smoke and the loss of all they knew frightened the civilians, but they followed his lead, for which Charry thanked the Light.

Seeing that no one else seemed to, he took charge, barking orders to keep the group together. “Stay close! Grab onto the nearest man, and don’t get separated!”

Despite his efforts, the retreat was messy. It didn’t take long to realize they wouldn’t get far enough with the pace they were moving at, so a few dozen soldiers stayed behind to slow down the enemy’s advance, buying precious time for the rest to escape. Charry watched as they bravely prepared the ground for a standoff, knowing their sacrifice was the only reason they could get to safety. Though there wasn’t much hope for them, he still grabbed a ranger and sent him ahead toward the main camp, hoping that reinforcements could come in time.

“We need to keep moving,” he told the group, his voice hoarse from shouting. “We’re not safe yet.”

The journey across the fields was grueling. The moon provided little light, and they stumbled over uneven ground, their progress slow. Charry kept looking back, the sight of the fires in the distance urging him forward.

Charry felt exhausted. The soldiers who stayed behind, the civilians who had been caught in the crossfire - it was a high price to pay. But they had managed to save many lives, and that thought gave him a sliver of solace.

As dawn began to break, they finally reached a small copse of trees that was defensible enough they could use it to hold until help arrived. Charry ordered a halt, allowing the exhausted group to rest. The civilians collapsed to the ground, their faces etched with relief and exhaustion.

Charry scanned the group, counting heads and assessing their condition. He approached Anton and Rupert, who were helping a water mage distribute filled canteens and tending to the wounded.

“How many did we lose?” Charry asked, his voice heavy with fatigue.

Anton shook his head, his expression grim. “Too many. But we saved more than I thought we would.”

“Have you seen the Captain?” Even before he asked, he knew the answer, having already looked for the man. The two shook their heads grimly.

“We did all we could; that has to be enough,” Rupert told him, reading the weariness on his face, and Charry sighed.

“I suppose it does.”

Chapter 55 - Raking the Ashes - Leonard 24

“Well, this is a shitshow.”

Leonard was tempted to reprimand Oliver for his language, but he had privately said much worse about it, so he merely sighed. The situation in Woodsman’s town had been difficult to solve, and though a quick push with the main army had managed to send the royalist troops fleeing back towards Treon, word of the death and destruction brought by the 4th Corp would no doubt spread.

Now that command of the town had been reestablished, he should have been able to relax. Amelia’s last report had shown that Count Pollus was still in the northeast, busy putting out the fires she kept lighting up and likely preparing for a confrontation with an army that didn’t exist.

It was the ideal situation for him to consolidate the territory he had conquered with the latest push and prepare for the assault on Treon’s surroundings, which he would need to scour free of Locke’s troops to then besiege the city itself.

Unfortunately, this blunder meant he needed to reevaluate things. He had called a meeting of the brass, and while waiting for them to arrive, he requested Damien come by to give him a report on the damage done. Despite the setback, Leonard was determined to find a way forward.

“Not exactly how I would have put it, but it’s certainly not ideal,” The vicar replied, intensely staring at the map open on the table. “Our initial plan was to repeat our success with Thelma’s slaves in Treon as well, and to that effect, Lady Lia, Lady Amelia, and I had deployed and recruited several agents, but this will throw a wrench in the plans. I wouldn’t say they aren’t feasible anymore, but news has already started spreading about the massacre of Woodsman’s Town. While no one expects war to be bloodless, our moral high ground has been compromised.”

That was the source of Leonard’s headaches. Captain Rubeus was dead and had been for long enough that [Resurrection] couldn’t bring him back, but even had it been possible, Leonard wasn’t sure he would have done it. The man had botched the whole operation so severely that it had significantly harmed the overall strategy to take Treon! How exactly he had lost control of his troops was still up to debate, but the witness accounts of those soldiers who had kept their wits and organized the retreat were damning.

“Should we expect a prolonged siege, then? If the people of Treon believe we are bloodthirsty monsters, they’ll fight us to the death,” Oliver asked, lips pressed together tightly.

It was a daunting prospect. A siege would mean an unacceptable loss of life both in the army and in the city, and it would allow Count Pollus the time to reach them in unfavorable terrain, no matter how effective Amelia was in the northeast.

“It is possible, though I would caution you that there was always a chance it would end up this way. Treon’s protections are significantly more powerful than we have encountered so far, and its population has only heard propaganda about us for the last months.” Damien answered. His calm way of putting things into perspective was one of his best qualities.

At that moment, people started streaming into the tent, led by Gerard, who had a grim expression. Leonard waited until the last was in before casting [Silence], preventing any diviner from snooping in.

Given how unfocused and disorganized the loyalists had been, they hadn’t been worried about such spying initially, but after the ambush at Woodsman’s Town, they started taking greater precautions.

“Anything new?”

Gerard sat down heavily, running a hand over his face. Leonard knew he hadn’t slept for the past couple of days, having been busy with the cleanup and organizing the scouting missions. Since the enemy army was close now, they needed to ensure escape routes and rough terrain were accounted for, which meant practically redoing their maps. Those they had used so far were old and mostly cared for merchant routes rather than providing military-level information.

“I believe we have finally finished scouring the nearby countryside for fleeing civilians, but we still haven’t found any soldiers, which makes me think we are dealing with a much more professional force than any we have met so far.” Gerard’s conclusion aligned with his own. It would make sense for such a perfect ambush to be organized by an elite squad. Since General Locke was still slowed down by the bureaucracy and red tape in Treon, he’d send the best he had available to harass the Revolutionaries. Much like they had done in the north.

It’s surprisingly annoying to have a competent enemy. Even more so when our tactics are thrown back into our faces, and we don’t see it coming.

“Still, the losses aren’t as bad as we initially thought. The 4th’s Sergeant who organized the retreat was quite thorough in his efforts, and he might have singlehandedly saved us from a humiliating defeat.” Gerard then gestured for one of his adjutants, who snapped a crisp salute and continued the explanation, “From multiple witness accounts and thorough scrying of the area, we were able to determine that the enemy was led by a Colonel Vokoss, who has earned significant merits by leading an elite squad again the furthest reaches of the Incursion in the region and keeping Treon free of the Void. He currently has around three hundred men with him, though we believe he’s marching back to a rendezvous point to meet up with a larger force. This squad is estimated to be made of two hundred ninety Journeymen and up to ten Experts, explaining how they could move unnoticed at night and set up the trap in Woodsman’s Town without alerting our scouts.”

A more in-depth written report was passed around, with notes from the various rangers on the specific traces they had found and from David’s team of Divination Mages, who would receive a bonus and an order from Leonard to recruit more men. His decision to spare the kid’s life was proving quite the coup.

“Alright, this explains what went wrong. What are we doing to prevent a catastrophe of this size from happening again?”

At Leonard’s question, his subordinates looked at each other before an adjutant gulped and spoke up, “With your permission, Grand Marshal, we believe that implementing more through scouting before major advances and coupling those with smaller, faster teams of elites would allow us to keep our pace but to be protected from falling into traps like this again.”

Knowing it couldn’t have come from anyone else, Leonard turned to Gareth, who had been uncharacteristically quiet.

“This is why I insisted on concentrating on quality over quantity. As long as the army is with you, Sir Leonard, we don’t have anything to fear from ants like Vokoss, but once we are alone, we are as mortal as anyone else. We must create independent units who can lead ahead of our larger Corps.” Knowing that Gareth only said what he meant to and that if he had a real problem with the leadership, he would have been explicit with his words rather than veil them in subtle insults, Leonard didn’t take offense and gave Damien a stern look, halting him from reprimanding the man. Hell would freeze over before he created an environment where his men couldn’t speak their minds during important meetings.

“Alright, let’s do that. Oliver, send word to Lia to start prioritizing the squads that Gareth will identify. I want as many potions and defensive artifacts as possible.” His squire saluted and, at his gesture, left the tent. Turning to the adjutants, he gave them their orders, “Send out word that I want the terrain from here to Stonebridge completely mapped out. No more surprises.”

Only when he was left alone with his three Ministers did Leonard relax. He sighed, reaching for a bottle of wine and twisting his finger to remove the cap. The three men accepted a glass and sat quietly, savoring the Brander white.

“It’s a new vintage they are making in the Republic. The merchants brought me a cask as a gift,” He murmured, earning a snort from Gerard.

“They might be our best allies, but I wouldn’t trust them. They always want to earn something with everything they do.”

Leonard allowed himself a smile. For all his talent as a commander and ability to raise competent troops seemingly in a fraction of the time it would take others, Gerard was still very much a salt-of-the-earth patriot. He didn’t like depending on foreign nations, much less trusted them.

Not that Leonard did either, but he had come to an agreement with Brander. It would take a while to show its worth, but he was pretty sure they wouldn’t be able to refuse him once they saw the writing on the walls. Not with the way Hammerfest was muscling in on the western Serpent Sea trade routes.

“Everybody wants something,” Damien snorted, eyes glinting in the half-light.

Leonard chuckled, shaking his head. His friends and advisors were quite pessimistic, but considering how things were going, it was better to be prepared for the worst. “We need to take Stonebridge before they can reinforce the crossing. It should be easier than Fort Genus, what with it being an entire town built around the river, but if they can place enough artillery on the other bank, we’ll pay dearly for every inch we take.”

“Send Neer,” Gareth said, surprising him. “Oh, I’d love to do it myself, but this is a good chance to test the new teams under different leadership. She’s sturdy enough that she should be able to prevent any catastrophic loss before reinforcements can arrive. Stonebridge is important but not vital. We can afford to use it to test the new doctrine.”

Leonard mulled over the matter, trying to game out how it would go. Initially, he had wanted to send Gerard directly to oversee the operation, as it would guarantee a smooth rollout. They needed a decisive victory to leave the mess at Woodsman’s Town behind. Still, Gareth was right that they should test the tactic’s efficacy before using it in the real campaign. It was easy to forget that this was only the beginning. Haylich was a big country, and his plans didn’t stop at Hetnia’s borders.

“Alright, Neer will lead the charge to Stonebridge. Let’s make sure we give her all the intel we can, and Damien, while the initial plan for Treon might not work out, it doesn’t mean you shouldn’t keep working on it. Anything we can get to speed up the process is worth its weight in gold. If you need some coin to grease palms, it’s yours.”

Planning sessions always left Leonard drained. They were part and parcel of the path he had chosen, and he would always give it his all, but in the privacy of his thoughts, he could lament how much more quickly he could solve problems on his own if only he stopped caring about collateral damage.

It was a constant battle inside him, and he did his best to keep it private. It wouldn’t do for anyone else to understand how close their leader was to burning it all down.

Whenever one of these moods struck him, Leonard moved away from the main camp. The quiet of the Darkwood and Nemas's subtle, watchful presence always helped him recenter his thoughts.

Before he could fall into meditation, he was interrupted. While this would have irritated him normally, Leonard immediately recognized the blazing presence—among a hundred others! Which he should have expected, to be fair—that appeared on the other side of the clearing and opened his eyes with a smile. “Jean! Welcome to the Revolution.”

His young friend stood there for a moment longer, seemingly unbelieving that she was actually there. Still, the indecision lasted only momentarily because she dropped her bags next to the group of orphans, noble brats, and the patiently smiling matron she had taken along and ran across the clearing, all but jumping in Leonard’s arms. “I couldn’t let you do this alone. Knowing you, there wouldn't be a duchy by the time you got done.” She murmured in his chest, squeezing as hard as she could.

Leonard laughed happily, cradling the girl. Some things might not have gone according to plan, but the Revolution had just converted a major player. Victory was closer than ever before.

Chapter 56 - War is Messy - Neer 3

Cutting a man’s throat open was a messy business. The blood could spurt as far as four feet away, and there was no good way of hiding that.

Fortunately, Neer and her team were more than capable of killing the enemy sentries without resorting to such crude methods. A dagger slid in between the ribs at the correct angle could do the job just as well, and it had the side effect of making sure the victims couldn’t scream since their lungs had a new hole.

I can’t say I ever thought I’d be leading a stealth mission to disrupt the enemy camp, but this isn’t so bad.

Violence was a necessity of life. Whether it was to establish rules or to get revenge, it could all only be enforced through violence. Neer didn’t need the additional reasons to slaughter her way through the slaving scum, but her men were still green enough that she had made sure to remind them they couldn’t ever know peace until they had secured it in blood.

Moving on to the next soldier tending to a fire-pit once her current one had finished bleeding out, wide eyes staring unseeing into the night sky, Neer avoided the sound-based traps the royalists had set up. They were minor runes carved in the scattered stones of the old riverbed, easily missable if one didn’t know about them in the first place.

Which was why she was grateful to the scrying teams for their efforts. It had felt like a waste at the time, but knowing everything about the enemy camp’s layout beforehand made her job more manageable.

Smoothly stepping behind the man, Neer waited until he had put down his flask and grabbed his face from behind. Her dagger flashed in the flickering light of the flames and buried itself in his ribs, drawing a pained exhale. Again, she kept him propped up against her chest, waiting for life to leave him, before she slowly withdrew, arranging the body so that, at first glance, it would only look like he had fallen asleep.

I’m the first to think we should fight in the open in a proper battle, but this is kind of fun, too. It cannot last forever, of course. Someone will notice us before too long, but the more we can whack, the less there will be to shoot at us once it’s day.

The fact that the enemy camp was split up in two, with the river coursing through, made her life much easier. She could understand that they didn’t want to give up one bank without a fight, but they should have taken possession of the eastern bank entirely if that was the case. Leaving only the younger, less experienced soldiers to hold it while the veterans and nobles lounged on the safer western side, if not in Stonebridge directly, meant they were open to sabotage.

As she had predicted, someone finally noticed the sentries hadn’t reported and had the good sense to raise the alarm, but by then, Neer and her team were half a mile away and already going over what they had learned for the morning assault.

By the time Neer’s squad was ready to advance in full force, someone with some sense in their brain had taken over the royalist camp and reorganized things so that the artillery was waiting for them while a shield wall blocked an advance toward the bridge.

Her raid the previous night must have seriously rattled the leadership because the enemy army was ready for battle well before anyone should expect another attack.

Of course, Neer had expected this and brought her men to bear from the north rather than directly from the east like they expected her to.

She led her elite squad through the dense foliage of the northern reaches of the Darkwood, her senses sharp and muscles coiled, ready for the impending clash. The pre-dawn light filtered through the trees, casting eerie shadows on the forest floor. The air was thick with anticipation, every footfall muffled by the undergrowth.

Neer thanked the Light that the diviners had found such a well-hidden path during their scouting, as otherwise, she would have had to attack frontally.

As if I’d be that stupid. They have four times our numbers, and the cannons are ready to punish any charge, even if hiding them behind the lines of shields was a clever idea. Unfortunately for you, I’m the hunter and you the prey.

Once they stood at the end of the forest and only a mile separated her from the enemy, she turned to her little surprise, grunting for him to come forward.

The young mage did so with only a slight hesitation, standing next to her, his head only reaching her chest. She gave him a narrow look, trying to sense duplicity, but he merely smiled back.

“I’m ready whenever you are, my lady.” He murmured in that soft tone of voice of his, and Neer had to resist the impulse to bark at him to be more manly. This wasn’t the time for that.

“How long do you think the cover will last?” She instead asked, turning to stare back at the enemy lines. With her show the previous night of directly targeting the camp, she had achieved her goal of showing them that putting up rangers and sentries would only lead to their deaths. This allowed her squad to get as close as they were, but the last stretch could prove fatal.

Yes, the enemy was expecting her to come from a different direction, but running for a mile would still take enough time for them to be able to reorient at least some of their weaponry and almost all infantry. Which was why she was deferring to the little mage as he prepared to cast his illusion spells.

“It should be enough to get you halfway there. I can’t guarantee more than that.” He said, and she gave him a sharp nod, motioning for him to begin.

Her trump card, Elias, took a deep breath, raising his hands to weave the intricate patterns of the spell. The air around them shimmered as he murmured an incantation, elvish words of power that wrapped around them like a protective cloak. Neer didn’t bother trying to understand them, knowing that fey magic would only reveal itself to those who the caster wanted. The squad watched in awe as their forms began to blur, blending seamlessly with the surroundings.

Neer felt the familiar tingle of magic washing over her, the sensation both comforting and unnerving. Magic had always been a tool she respected but didn't fully trust. Yet Elias had proven himself reliable, and she had to rely on his abilities to accomplish the mission the Grand Marshal had given her, whether she liked it or not.

"We're masked," Elias whispered, his voice slightly strained from the effort. "But we need to move quickly. The spell won't hold forever.”

“It’ll do," Neer replied, her voice a low growl. "Let's move out.”

With that, the elite squad began their stealthy advance. They left the dense foliage and rapidly reached the river bank. Somehow, their passage didn’t disturb the pebbles with every step, and their forms were nearly invisible to the naked eye. The shield wall around the bridge loomed ahead, unaware of the death creeping towards them.

Four hundred feet away, a sudden surge of energy pulsed through the air. Neer’s sharp senses detected the disruption a split second before Elias gasped in pain. The illusion faltered, the shimmering veil straining to hide their forms.

"Damn it," Elias panted, clutching his head. "They have a counter-spell. I can’t maintain it.”

Neer didn't waste a moment. “It’s enough. Move to the back and support! We're going in! RUN!”

The element of surprise was compromised, but they were still close enough to strike before the enemy could fully react. Neer led the charge, her sword gleaming in the early light as the illusion shattered completely. The royalist soldiers, caught off guard, scrambled to reorient their defense, shouts and orders mingling with the rumble of their charge.

Neer crashed into the first man before those behind him realized what was happening. Her sword cleaved through armor and flesh with terrifying ease. She relished the feel of the weapon in her hands, its weight a familiar comfort. She swung it with brutal precision, penetrating deep into the enemy lines.

The first tank she encountered barely had time to raise his shield before hers found a gap and split his chest open. Blood sprayed, and Neer was already moving on to the next target. Her men followed her lead, having been forged by Sir Gareth’s hellish training into a real force.

By now, the entire enemy force had realized they had been outplayed and that the revolutionaries were among them, but it was too late to bring the artillery to bear. Any barrage aimed their way would lead to a massacre of their own troops, and while some commanders might have been willing to go that far, the soldiers manning the cannons were not.

Rifles still shot their way, but the high quality armor the Revolution’s alchemists had prepared and the sheer speed at which Neer and her men buckled the eastern bank lines meant they avoided the worst of it.

The leadership’s first attempt to change the flow came as a group of knights, heavily armored and mounted, charged over the bridge and toward her, evidently meant as a decapitating strike.

Neer disengaged from the infantrymen and met them head-on, her sword swinging in wide arcs, wind blades following in its wake and forcing the group to split. She ducked under a lance thrust and brought her weapon up, the blade biting deep into a horse's neck. The beast screamed and toppled, taking its rider with it. Neer was on him in an instant, sword descending to end his life in a single, brutal blow.

All around her, the battle raged. Her elite squad fought with unmatched ferocity, their weapons finding gaps in the royalists' defenses. Brody’s warhammer crushed bones and shattered shields, while Elle’s twin swords danced through the chaos, striking with lethal precision.

Despite their superior numbers, the royalist forces were no match for Neer's elite. Panic spread through their ranks as they struggled to mount a coherent defense. They had expected a direct charge from an army of peasants and slaves. They got a surgical strike from Journeymen and Experts.

Neer pushed forward, driving the enemy back towards the river. “Don’t let them retreat!" she roared, her voice carrying over the din of battle.

The royalists attempted to fall back, desperate to cross the river and regroup on the western bank. Neer knew she couldn't allow that. She charged forward, her sword swinging with deadly intent. She cut down fleeing soldiers with ruthless efficiency, but there were simply too many.

By the time she reached the river, having cut a bloody swath through the enemies, most soldiers were across the bridge, and the artillery was finally free to start pounding them. Thanks to her personal endurance, she could attempt crossing it, but she’d be cut off from her allies, leaving them to fend off the incoming retaliation by themselves.

Pushing down her instinct to chase after the fleeing soldiers, Neer drew back, allowing the last few men to reach the bridge and rejoining her men.

Of course, Neer hadn’t come all the way to Stonebridge without preparing a counter, so she rushed to Elias, who had held back from the carnage. Without needing her prompt, he handed over a small bronze medallion covered with tiny, interlocking runes, and she pumped it full of mana.

The ground beneath her trembled, and a deep rumbling sound filled the air. The earth responded to her will, reshaping and rising to form sturdy walls of packed soil and stone just in time to absorb the first of the cannon fire.

The earthen walls held firm, the impacts causing only minor cracks and divots that were immediately patched up. Her squad quickly joined her behind the newly formed protection, dropping down in exhaustion.

"Thank the Light for Archmage Franklin's gift," Brody muttered, his warhammer resting on his shoulder as he caught his breath.

Neer grimly acknowledged his words. "It saved our hides, no doubt. But now we're stuck here. Attacking the bridge is suicide without the meat wall to protect us, so we're trapped until reinforcements arrive.”

“How long can you realistically hold? That thing has to be draining you pretty rapidly. I can provide some mana, but the illusion from earlier tired me enough. I already had to drink a potion,” Elias asked, fascinated by the shining amulet.

“I’ll hold as long as I need to. Sir Gareth will be here before long, and when he does, you need to be fresh enough to support his assault.” Neer replied and chuckled, “That also doesn’t mean you can slack off. We must keep our enemies entertained because if they realize we are just waiting, they’ll swarm across the bridge in full force, and it’ll be over.”

Chapter 57 - Battle for the Bridge - Charry 4

Being under the leadership of the famed General Doomspear was a much different experience than Charry had expected.

First of all, the man exuded charisma from every pore. He had an air of settled competence that made everyone trust he knew what he was doing. And it wasn’t even a magical effect since Anton—who, as a dwarf, had a natural resistance to such things—was just as spellbound.

The 4th Corp's reorganization had been swift but thorough, and at the end of it, Charry had found himself the second in command with little idea how it had happened.

Well, that’s not true. The General told me he respected how I handled the situation at Woodsman’s Town, and since Captain Rubeus and his adjutant are dead, I’m the next in line. But it still feels like a dream. I was a slave just a few months ago, and now I’m sitting on a horse, leading an assault alongside a knight recognized by the Hero himself.

Although Charry was still reeling from the changes, he took on his new responsibility with the same dogged determination he had used for everything else in his life. It had served him well so far, and so he didn’t see a need to change his behavior.

“We’re getting close, Sergeant. We’ll see Stonebridge in ten minutes if we continue at this pace.” A scout informed him before bounding away in long strides, returning to his position to keep an eye on any possible ambush spot.

Not that they expected any, with the open grassland around them and the intense scrying that the new divination division had done. Still, it paid to be careful, and Charry appreciated how his men had learned their lessons after the catastrophic failure at Woodsman’s Town.

“Is the artillery ready to be deployed?” He turned to ask Anton, who had just returned from a last-minute inspection of the reinforced carriages prepared at the Hero’s behest.

Charry hadn’t seen the reason for wasting so much enchantment material initially. Still, after the first of the armored carts rolled out of production and annihilated an entire squad without suffering more than cosmetic damage, he recanted his position and became a true believer. Then, the Archmage updated their protections, and Charry couldn’t wait to see how they’d perform.

It was at times like this that he remembered the Hero was from another world and not a native, with all the knowledge and ideas that came from that.

As far as he knew, Haylich's military doctrine focused on massive armies rapidly gaining ground and being protected by aerial corps of either Griffin Knights or Airships. The ground belonged to stationary artillery and infantry corps.

The armored carts were an innovation that some thought unnecessary, given the advantage the Revolution enjoyed so far every time it clashed directly with the enemy.

Charry, however, could see how it would make attacking well-defended positions possible. Their first deployment alongside General Doomspear meant the operation could be saved even if the worst happened and the carts failed.

Especially since they should find a favorable situation upon arrival. Lady Neer should have led her squad to harass the enemy into retreating from the river's eastern bank, meaning the armored carts could unleash their payload on the opposite side without fear of damaging the bridge, which they would need to enter the marsh around Treon.

The signal from the group led by the General arrived soon after, and Charry quickly prayed to the Light to see him through this battle as well. “Get ready!” he yelled to the men, and once the scout returned and gave the go-ahead, he called, “Charge!”

Charry’s heart pounded like a drum as they neared the battlefield. The armored carriages rumbled beside them, their reinforced metal plating gleaming ominously in the morning light. He glanced back to see the men under his command, their faces set with grim resolve, ready to follow him into the chaos of battle. The river was now visible, and if that hadn’t been enough, the sight of a dozen cannons unloading on a crumbling earthen wall on the opposite side of the river would have been enough to tell him they were in the right place.

“Anton, are the carriages ready to unload once we get close enough?” Charry called out, his voice barely audible over the din of marching feet, stomping hooves, and rolling wheels.

Anton grunted curtly, pulling his head out of the metal beast. “Aye, they're ready. Our initial barrage should be enough to force them away from the bridge if the cannons can shoot all their shots without damaging the thing.”

As they finally got close enough to see people, the clash of steel, the roar of firearms, and the cries of soldiers filled the air. Charry could spy the flashes of light from spellwork and the bursts of gunfire ahead. He tightened his grip on his new rifle, legs urging his horse forward and urged his men forward.

“Stay close and keep moving!” Charry shouted, leading the charge, his mount intuiting his will and accelerating. “We must reach Lady Neer's position and reinforce her squad!”

The massive horses pulling the carriages whinnied but didn’t falter, steel wheels crushing the ground behind them. The first barrage of enemy artillery fire came, but the wards Archmage Franklin had placed held firm, deflecting the projectiles with ease. The carriages’ cannoneers returned fire, shaking the vehicles with the recoil but not damaging them. Charry felt a surge of hope as they pushed forward, the shots providing much-needed cover for his men.

General Doomspear’s forces emerged from the opposite side, advancing with disciplined precision. Thanks to the concentration of fire on Charry’s group, they were able to aim directly for the bridge.

The general himself was at the forefront, his presence commanding and terrifying to behold. His war cry echoed across the battlefield as he led his troops toward the enemy lines.

As Charry’s and the General’s forces converged on Neer’s position, the armored carriages opened fire again, their cannons blasting with thunderous force. The enemy artillery, caught off guard by the sudden assault, struggled to respond. Charry could see the confusion and panic spreading among the royalist ranks as three cannons were targeted and destroyed in quick succession.

Magical protections immediately flickered into being around the enemy positions, but it was shoddy, haphazard work.

Charry's keen eye for detail allowed him to identify weak points in the magical shields. He directed the carriage gunners precisely, and their shots pierced through the defenses, causing devastating explosions. Each successful hit bolstered the morale of his men, driving them to fight harder.

Another roar shook the battlefield as Lady Neer saw them coming and came out of her earthen walls, lifting her sword high, “For the Revolution!” Her words echoed into Charry’s bones, and he could only widen his eyes as he saw her jump away from the walls and toward the bridge, evidently intending to lead the charge.

While he would have liked to join her personally, Charry knew his strength lay elsewhere and returned to directing the artillery to keep the enemy occupied.

General Doomspear was soon with her, and the two clashed against the loyalists holding the bridge. Bullets pinged off their armor without finding purchase, and soon, they were too close to shoot.

From the desperate cries coming that way and the sight of numerous men being thrown over into the rushing waters, Charry was sure the two Experts would take the bridge soon enough.

Noticing from the corner of his eye that a mage on the opposite side was preparing to cast something on a cannon, and with his instincts screaming that it would be extremely dangerous to allow it to happen, Charry raised his rifle and snapped three shots in quick succession. The first cracked the shield around the mage, causing the man to turn in surprise. The second broke it completely, barely fizzing out before it could blow the man’s brain out, and the third exploded in his midsection, away from the instinctive protection the mage had crafted around his head.

The battle continued for several more minutes, with the two powerhouses cutting their way through the bridge and, after finally taking it, leading their men into the enemy lines on the other side of the river.

Behind all this, the town of Stonebridge lay deserted. No one could be seen in the open, and Charry prayed it would remain so for every shot from the armored carriages that was deflected away by the enemy’s shields and landed on the streets.

Still, the tide of the battle had fully turned in the revolutionaries’ favor. Without the bridge to use as protection for the riflemen—as any attack that could harm them could also damage the stone, which would lead to the bridge’s collapse and subsequent retaliation from the water elementals—the loyalists started to pull back into the town, evidently intending on fighting street by street and to make the rebels pay for every inch of territory.

Unfortunately for them, General Doomspear had other ideas. He jumped ahead of his men and landed square in the middle of the retreating soldiers and began cutting a bloody swath through them.

Wherever he turned, men died. As soon as he laid his eyes on someone, that person was on the ground, bleeding out.

It reached a point where the loyalists bunched up together, holding their shields at the ready as if trying to storm a fortified position.

The General halted his charge for a moment, seemingly surprised by the maneuver. Charry could clearly see his shoulders shaking in laughter and suspected he was taunting the enemy soldiers for treating him so.

That was when a burst of Light blinded his sight. The divine energy halted the fighting, and everyone stopped to watch as power condensed around the General.

Having been a soldier for months, Charry was somewhat used to witnessing Blessings, but he had to admit that he hadn’t seen one of such levels before. This was Gareth Doomspear’s elevation to Master.

The Blessing continued for a few more seconds before fading away. The Light’s presence left the battlefield like a warm gust of air as people struggled to reorient themselves.

Silence reigned for a moment longer before the General lifted his spear, and lightning enveloped it, bursting into existence with a great crackle.

The enemy soldiers, who had already been inclined to treat the man like a force of nature, did the sensible thing and threw their shields and weapons down, begging for mercy.

From that moment on, like a stacked castle of cards whose base was abruptly removed, they all fell down, surrendering to the closest revolutionary.

Charry kept a wary eye on the enemy artillery, more than aware that victory could become a tragedy with a lucky shot. Indeed, his caution was repaid as he saw a gunner disregard what everyone else was doing and prepare his cannon, aiming it toward the newly blessed Master.

For a second, Charry wondered if he should allow the man to shoot. A fourth-tier knight should technically be able to withstand such a blow, and that more than anything would break the men’s will to fight, but he pushed that thought away.

Taking aim, he shot and placed a bullet between the man’s eyes, and the headless corpse dropped to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut.

“Feckin’ bastards always try to get one last shot. Sore losers is what they are.” Anton commented from his side, having witnessed the exchange.

Charry felt a smile curl up his lips and shook his head, not deigning that with a response. “Alright. Men! Keep your rifles up, and don’t lower your guard until all the enemies have surrendered. Grab the enchanted rope from the carriages to bind them, or we’ll have to put down a mutiny! If I wake up tonight with a slit throat, I will haunt you all!”

With that, he walked over to the bridge, where Lady Neer was dragging two fancily dressed men away from the loyalists. From the golden filigree used to sew floral patterns on their clothes and how their shrieking grated on his ears, Charry deduced these two were high-ranking nobles. Maybe barons, given that they were assigned to such a desperate battle?

“Have you caught some big fishes, ma’am?” He asked, smiling with his teeth bared as the two turned to him, shaking with impotent rage.

“Aye, they’re fattened enough for good eating.” She replied with dark amusement, and whatever angry retort the nobles could have devised was lost as they paled dramatically.

Chapter 58 - Good Old Fashioned Morale Wins - Leonard 25

The victory at Stonebridge brought some much-needed enthusiasm to the troops. Leonard knew his men would follow him into hell, but armies operated just as much on morale as on supplies.

Low enthusiasm hadn't been a problem so far—not with the numerous victories they had notched one after the other—but Woodsman’s Town had brought them back to reality and made many realize that they were still up against the rest of the kingdom, even should they manage to conquer the entirety of Hetnia.

Stonebridge was a small town, more of a village really, but since it had been defended by an entire Royal Army Corp, one that had the time to prepare the field to their advantage, Neer and Gareth’s victory had reassured the hesitant that even without Leonard taking the field, the Revolutionary Army was more than capable of standing up against its enemies.

The victory was even more noteworthy as it was punctuated by a Master-level Blessing from the System. Damien gleefully spun the news that the Light directly interfered in their favor to the furthest corners of their nascent state.

His tale didn’t mention that the new Master had also needed to spend several days working on his fine control after his physical strength shot through the roof. That would break the fantasy.

“How’s it going?” Leonard asked Gareth, sitting down next to him below a large oak tree, enjoying the breeze and the fact that, for once, there wasn’t anyone vying for his attention. Just a silent clearing and his friend.

Gareth scratched at his stubble pensively, “Much better than at the beginning. Your suggestion to work my way through basic exercises first before trying to do my usual routine helped. I forgot how much things change when you go up a tier, though the disparity between Journeyman and Expert is much less than from Expert to Master.”

Leonard chuckled, remembering his own fumbling once he got to Champion. It was the entire reason he had needed Nemas to save him. He could have carved his way through the Darkwood by himself, but the damage it would have done to the ancient forest would have been comparable to what the Incursion was causing.

“I’m still trying to wrap my head around how much more I can do now. I remember my old teacher telling me that to reach the fourth Blessing was to step into a realm apart from mortals, one where things started to make less and less sense, but I still didn’t expect it.” Gareth answered.

Leonard leaned back, staring at the sky with a distant look, “I didn’t have the luxury of taking my time, and so once I stopped freaking out about the summoning, the Whiteguard put me through the paces. Those old men don’t play around when it comes to their reputation, and they wouldn’t let me fight until they were sure I could hold my own.”

Gareth looked surprised but kept quiet, likely knowing this was a rare moment. Leonard seldom spoke of the early days, as the complete lack of agency and the pain of being ripped away from his life had turned them into a haze. That didn’t mean he couldn’t appreciate the few good things. The ancient Paladin Order of Haylich was made up of real warriors who freely gave their lives for the realm's safety, and they took good care of him.

“The Grandmaster of the Order, particularly, enjoyed beating me into the ground. He always did it in front of large crowds so that I would be pushed to get better by my frustration even more than the distant threat of the Void could. At the time, I hated him.” Leonard confessed, but a fond smile stretched his lips, “He was an arrogant bastard, and he enjoyed humiliating me more than anyone else, but he was also perfectly aware of my situation and tailored his teachings to how quickly I was growing, never once trying to impose something just because of tradition.”

At the time, showing up the old man had been more important to him than fighting against the tides of world-ending monsters. It was weird how quickly the mind could adapt when there was a real, tangible goal to achieve.

“The first time I managed to land a blow on him, I felt like I could do anything. I had just become an Expert, but my control over the Light outstripped my rank. He hadn’t expected me to be subtle after I charged at him without rest for months.” Leonard chuckled. Those were easier, more naive times. Thinking back on it, his acceptance of the status quo had been borne there. His bonds with the locals and their indifference to the plight of the slaves had made it hard for him to campaign against it, especially since there was a much more immediate threat he needed to deal with.

“I heard he was a great man but that he retired after the Incursion was repelled, having been prevented from fighting by royal decree,” Gareth commented, removing pieces of his armor and dropping them on the ground beside him.

“Oh, yes. He hated having to stay in Mellassoria while there was a war going on. He was made for battle. A mean bastard, too, but he knew how to fight and is still, to this day, the best swordsman I have ever encountered. If we fought without the advantages of our Blessings, he likely could still beat me up. But he saw the writing on the wall and decided to dedicate himself to the raising of the next generation of Paladins rather than butt heads with the Royal Court. He knew it was only a matter of time before they tried to do something about me.” Leonard’s voice took a faraway quality as he thought back to his last time in Mellassoria as a lawful subject.

“He tried to warn me. He told me it was unlikely the Prime Minister would allow me to run around without something to hold over my head, but he thought they’d offer me a pretty bride to tame me. I didn’t tell him about Belinda, after all. Maybe things would have gone differently if I hadn’t been with her, but I don’t think so. I wouldn’t have accepted a woman explicitly meant to tie me down anyway.” Then, remembering who it was he was speaking with, he made to apologize but was stopped before he could.

“I know perfectly well what it means to love someone and lose them. I simply didn’t have the strength to do anything about it. Both emotionally and physically.” Gareth replied, tone dead.

They stayed in silence for a while, each contemplating just how different life could have been, but eventually set that aside for more immediate concerns.

“How would you like a spar? I still need to work on my hand-to-hand. I exploded a tree the last time I punched without holding back.” Gareth asked, standing up and tending a hand to Leonard, who smiled and took it.

“Let’s do something about that, shall we?”

“Frankly, our biggest problem at the moment is that we cannot be everywhere at once. Our main thrust towards Treon is quite successful, and we are likely moving faster than General Locke is prepared for. The last reports say that he has finally managed to leave the city, but he’s still being stymied at every stop because of all the toadies Count Luster-Treon has filled the military's upper ranks with.” Damien reported, reading off a series of letters full of dense script.

“I thought the General had full control over the military?” Oliver asked in surprise.

“He did, and still technically does, but as part of the negotiations to move the majority of the forces away from Treon, he had to allow the Count to appoint a series of important positions, and while he did curtail most of their influence, and indeed has kept the elite squads free to act as we have recently seen, that meant he had to keep all the nobles with himself.”

Leonard snorted. General Locke was a competent commander on the field, and he had learned enough politicking to handle the worst excesses of Treon’s nobles, but nothing could stop the sheer disruption that a band of spoiled scions who thought your very serious military campaign was a jolly excursion could bring.

Damien cleared his throat, and the attention returned to him, “As I was saying, the problem is that we cannot be everywhere. Several of our agents have reported significant unrest in almost all towns with a slave population worth noting. While we have managed to spark up a few rebellions, especially in the north-east thanks to the success of Minister Barks’ operations, most remain unable to capitalize, simply because the local nobles have refused the call to send their garrisons to aid General Locke or Count Pollus and thus would still be able to eliminate any insurgency.”

It’s very ironic that the only reason those nobles are still in power is that they are too selfish and greedy to heed the call of their superior, considering that it is the entire reason they are under threat.

“Isn’t that better for us? I would have thought having to deal with a hostile population within their walls would lead to fewer troops being sent to the main armies, which means we’ll have easier fights.” Gerard commented, and while it was a pretty callous statement, Leonard agreed.

Damien shook his head, however, surprising him. “It might look like that at first glance, but our greatest issue at the moment is not how powerful our enemy is—we have them beat simply because of our elites—but how quickly we can defeat them before the rest of the kingdom realizes how big of a threat we are, and start sending their much better-equipped men to fight.”

Leonard stayed silent, wanting to see how his advisors and commanders dealt with the situation. He had his own position, of course, but he had found that if he spoke too soon, people just tended to agree with him.

“Frankly, I still don’t see the problem. Yes, we’ll need to handle a series of fortified towns and villages along the way to fight Count Pollus, but doing so after we have taken Treon shouldn’t set us back too much. The nobles still holding onto their lands will probably run away once they see us coming.” Gerard countered.

“But then we’d have to deal with a much bigger army. If we could just send a few infiltration squads in strategic locations on the path north from Treon, we’d be able to steal a march on the Count once he realized the trap he’s fallen into in the east and directs his army to the west.” Damien countered, and it seemed the intelligence division was on his side from the way the two other men who had come in with him nodded.

Turning to Leonard, Gerard shook his head, “Grand Marshal, the swamps we’ll have to go through to Treon are already a threat enough to our speed. If we shed all our elite squads, we’ll be sitting ducks to the much more familiar men of General Locke.”

Leonard waited for a moment to see if anyone else would interject before replying, “I’m happy you have come around to the idea of having smaller, more uniquely trained squads rather than a simple, larger army.” That was a light chastisement, and his General took it in good spirit. “But I’m inclined to agree. We need the more mobile squads to roam ahead of us as we move through the swamps, as it is the only possible place for General Locke to halt us. Our diviners haven’t noticed anything threatening so far, but if his fame is even half deserved, he’ll know he needs to stop us before we get to Treon proper.”

Immediately, all the fight left Damien. He nodded in acceptance, apparently more than happy even though his proposal had been rejected.

Leonard had to wonder how much of what he had said had honestly been his position and how much had been a test. And if it was a test, for whom had it been?

Chapter 59 - Playing Games and Earning Prizes - Amelia 8

Saltwater was a relatively small town for the amount of traffic that usually went through it. A couple thousand people called it home permanently, but it could see its population swell to twice its size on a busy day. That happened when the nearby city of Volten was hosting an event of particular importance or when the southern merchants were tight on coin and decided to take the long route around the Darkwood, following the coast, to reach Hassel.

Under Amelia’s watch, the town hosted more than seven thousand people within its walls. Not something that could be sustained for long, especially since soldiers were known to eat much and produce little, but she had ensured the stores would be full before closing the gates and lifting the wards. No one could get out or come in, but the people wouldn’t suffer for it overmuch.

It was a pretty drastic change to the locals’ lives. One wouldn’t be remiss to think that there would be some resistance. However, the fact that her soldiers significantly outnumbered the civilians and positively dwarfed the local militia meant that no one tried to cause trouble. The people were hunkering down and hoping the storm would pass.

The local lord, one Sir Elliot Saltwater of Saltwater, was wise enough to surrender once she appeared in his solar, completely bypassing his guards and his castle’s protections. He had agreed not to fight her once she promised that if he cooperated, she wouldn’t execute him or his household. Some less subtle threats might have been involved as well.

The three hundred slaves they had found being employed around the fields or as salt gatherers on the coast had been much less shy about expressing their bloodthirst. Almost all of them were part of a group of refugees from a town that dealt with firewood and had been overrun by the voidlings. Upon reaching what they believed to be a safe haven, they were instead enslaved upon the order of the current lord’s father for not being able to pay for their keep. That kind of betrayal did not engender good feelings.

Amelia, however much she would have liked to satisfy them, kept her word, and even now, House Saltwater was being held in one of the few mansions of the noble district under the careful watch of her most loyal men. They were explicitly told that any attempt to contact the outside would be considered a breach of their agreement. After seeing what happened to the more bellicose aristocrats, they were cowed.

It wouldn’t last. Amelia knew that pride and arrogance would see to it that soon, Lord Volten or another ambitious member of his household would try her patience. Still, for the moment, she could focus on organizing the coming siege.

Frankly, it was extremely dull work, and after ensuring the town wouldn’t starve the moment Count Pollus parked his army outside the walls, Amelia left her requisitioned office to get some entertainment.

She stepped out of the castle and onto the cobblestone streets of Saltwater, immediately drawing the attention of those nearby. Her soldiers saluted her with respect and awe—still coming to terms with what real power looked like—their armor clinking as they stood to attention.

A few brave locals, venturing out of their homes despite the tense atmosphere, offered her hesitant greetings, which she returned with a gracious smile. Amelia exuded an air of perfect grace and beauty, her every movement deliberate and poised, reinforcing her image as a benevolent yet powerful leader. It wouldn’t do to get out of practice just because these people were unlikely to see her again once she left to rejoin Leonard.

She made her way through the town, silence falling in her wake. Her sharp eyes cataloged even the most subtle changes in the populace. People bowed their heads as she passed but were careful not to be overly deferential, showing that while the locals had kept away from her, they still took the time to learn the Revolution’s way of doing things. Amelia’s elegant dress, a rich fabric of deep burgundy with black embroidery, contrasted starkly with the simpler attire of the townsfolk, but not enough to paint her as a wasteful noble. Her raven-black hair was intricately styled, and her steps were as silent and deliberate as a cat stalking its prey.

Arriving at the mansion where House Saltwater was held, Amelia was greeted by the soldiers guarding the entrance. They snapped to attention, saluting her with disciplined precision. "Minister," they chorused, opening the grand doors to allow her inside. She didn’t particularly care for the mode of address, but it was important to spread awareness of the new reality, and soft power found much more fertile ground when people were already used to respecting protocol.

The mansion's interior was opulent, filled with lavish furnishings and rich tapestries. She could have had them removed as she had done in the nearby buildings, but she thought the constant reminder that they still had something to lose would help keep them in line.

Amelia’s keen senses detected the hurried footsteps and hushed whispers of servants scurrying to alert their masters of her arrival. She smiled, amused by the household's frantic attempts to appear composed and unbothered by her unexpected visit.

They can try to keep me ignorant all they like, but I have eyes inside their walls.

She could see the nobles snapping orders, attempting to maintain an air of dignity despite their obvious agitation. Servants hurried to dress the Lady of the house while the Lord paced around his room.

A stern-faced maid in crisp attire eventually led Amelia to a grand sitting room. The room was decorated with intricate tapestries depicting the previous owner’s history, and the furniture was upholstered in rich, dark fabrics. The Lord and Lady Saltwater awaited her, seated with forced elegance and wearing finely tailored clothing that spoke of their wealth and status as the premier nobles in a trading town. Lord Saltwater wore a dark green velvet doublet adorned with silver embroidery, while Lady Saltwater was clad in a deep blue silk gown, her neck and fingers adorned with glittering jewels.

She would have thought they’d try to appease her “sensibilities” as a revolutionary and dress less ostentatiously, but it seemed they were doing it as an act of quiet rebellion. Their will hadn’t broken yet.

Delightful. It would have been a pity if they lost hope too quickly.

“Lady Barks, what an unexpected pleasure,” Lord Saltwater greeted her. His voice was smooth, but he couldn’t completely hide the underlying tension he felt from her gaze.

“Indeed,” Lady Saltwater added, her smile brittle. “To what do we owe the honor of your visit? You must be busy since you are governing the town by yourself.”

If that was a dig at her unmarried status, Amelia didn’t know, but she found great amusement in the fact that this ant believed she could judge her. “Ah, just checking in on my guests’ good health. Nothing wrong with that, right?”

“Of course,” Lord Saltwater replied, his jaw tight. “Though we do look forward to the day when all this unpleasantness can be left behind.”

Again, with the doublespeak. I should play with the nobles more often. They are so amusing.

“Ah, yes, I’m sure that day will come soon enough,” Amelia said with a smile that was just wide enough to make Lady Saltwater shift uncomfortably. “Until then, I must commend you on how well you’ve adapted to your temporary lodgings. It’s not easy, I imagine, to be displaced so suddenly.”

The Lord and Lady exchanged a glance, their discomfort palpable. “We manage,” Lord Saltwater said, his voice strained.

Amelia’s smile widened even more. “How wonderful. I was told that your new neighbors are being a bit rowdy, but I’m sure you can understand how being freed from slavery would warrant some merriment.”

Lady Saltwater's face twitched, barely maintaining her composure. “Yes, well, we understand that they are... excited,” she said through gritted teeth.

“Indeed,” Amelia continued, her tone light enough to avoid being considered openly mocking. “I’ve made sure to assign them to the nearby mansions, spreading them all around the quarter, and set aside a portion of the loot for their sake. They seem much happier now.”

“To peasants? To slaves?!” The Lord ground out, looking like he was restraining himself from jumping out of his chair only because he knew it wouldn’t end well.

“Oh, of course,” Amelia replied lightly, enjoying the reaction. “After all, everyone deserves a chance at a better life, don’t they? The principle of freedom for everyone lights the way forward for us all. I am but a loyal member of the revolution and follow the will of the Grand Marshal.”

The tension in the room was thick enough to cut with a knife. The Lord and Lady Saltwater’s facade of composure was cracking, their thin veneer of civility strained to its limits. Amelia savored the moment, the thrill of dominance electrifying her senses.

Before she could see whether they would break, her game was interrupted. A shadeling emerged from below the table, hurrying to stand up and mimicking a soldier as it lifted a chubby hand to salute her. “Big News!” It cried.

Amelia thought it was adorable, but her two companions didn’t seem to agree. They shrieked madly, jumping away from the table and rushing to the room’s corner, eyes wide open in fear.

Lips twitching as she tried to stop the laughter that wanted to spring forth, Amelia lowered her gaze gracefully to look at the minor spirit.

Seeing that it had her attention, it reported, “The big group of humans is coming this way!”

Amelia smiled. Her trap had worked. Without bothering to explain herself, she turned and left the sitting room, her steps as measured and poised as ever. She could feel their eyes boring into her back, their silent fury almost tangible. Amelia allowed herself a small, satisfied smile as the doors closed behind her.

Shadows enveloped her, and she traveled through their inky depths, reappearing on the walls with practiced ease.

The lookout stationed there startled at her sudden arrival, nearly dropping his spyglass. He hurriedly bowed once he realized who had surprised him. “My lady!”

Amelia didn’t acknowledge him, her attention fixed on the horizon. She scanned the northwestern road, casting a quick [Eagle Eye] to enhance her range, and spotted a distant dust cloud that signaled the approaching army. “Good,” she murmured to herself. “He didn’t have a choice with us so close to Volten, but I was wondering if he had noticed anything off with how much time he was taking.”

Her unwitting spy in the enemy camp—who turned out to be Count Pollus’ adjutant—had allowed her to learn much about how the Count handled things, but she hadn’t been able to discover the specifics of the man’s plans because he kept them securely locked inside his head, never sharing them even with his most trusted advisors. That had left her in a limbo of sorts, where she’d know the moment the army moved, but was stuck in place without being able to do more to draw it out, as she risked overextending.

Turning to the lookout, she commanded, “Sound the bells. We must be ready to greet our guests.” The lookout scrambled to obey, leaving Amelia alone to watch the horizon.

When Leonard first assigned her this mission, she saw it as an extension of her duties. As the second most powerful person in the Revolution, she was the natural choice for such a complicated and risky maneuver. But after spending so much time and effort building up the eastern flank, Amelia found that she didn’t want to let it fall apart.

Her initial plan had been to force Count Pollus away from the southwest, and once she had secured Leonard enough time to take Treon, she’d leave. Now, she intended to make the man pay in blood for every inch of territory he would take. She couldn’t hope to win in a direct engagement with the troops she had, but she could make continuing the fight untenable.

She allowed herself a moment of satisfaction. This was the culmination of weeks of planning and manipulation. Now, all that remained was to see it through to the end. The game was about to reach its climax, and Amelia intended to enjoy every moment of it.

Chapter 60 - Handling Problems - Lia 2

“Not every problem can be solved by cracking heads, dear, even though it may look like it,” Lia sighed. These days, she was much more hopeful about the future and felt genuinely energized, but she couldn’t avoid the pains of old age. Not entirely, at least, even with her brews helping soothe the worst aches.

“I’m not sure the Grand Marshal would agree with that, considering how quickly that approach has seen him conquer land,” Margaret muttered, though she had the good sense not to be overheard by anyone else.

People could be surprisingly sensitive when it came to what they perceived as badmouthing the face of the Revolution. Especially the ex-slaves. They all took to her training with gusto, wanting to be useful in any way possible, and for them, there was no greater insult than even the slightest implication that Leonard Weiss wasn’t the Light personified.

Sometimes, Lia wondered just how inevitable it had been that a cult of personality would form around him—power had a way of attracting reverence, after all—and how much it was a direct consequence of her fellow ministers’ intervention.

With the cunning priest following along with the army to coordinate the intelligence department and the Spirit Summoner in the east raising hell, Lia should have had free reign over Lamprey Port and the rest of the conquered territories. She was the only cabinet member available, which meant the authority rested solely on her shoulders, a weight she felt keenly.

But she found her ability to enact change stymied more often than not. She didn’t think there was any malicious intent and was sure there was no coordinated campaign to undermine the revolution. No, it was just people being people.

Despite the change in leadership and all that entailed, most citizens had simply swapped the old aristocracy with a new ruling class in their minds. Oh, they sincerely appreciated that resources weren’t stolen from their hands, that injustice was almost a thing of the past, but for all intents and purposes, they had gone back to living life as usual, and that meant clinging to old habits and hierarchies, even if they were of a different flavor now. They revered Leonard Weiss not just as a leader but as a savior, a near-mythical figure who had delivered them from their chains.

“It is only to be expected that after being denied their freedom for so long, a few of them would end up going overboard. That they have kept to a few brawls and drunken revelry instead of something more destructive shows that our approach is working. Keeping the ex-slaves busy and teaching them new trades doesn’t only help the cause, but also gives them the chance of integrating.” Lia explained for what felt like the nth time.

She wasn’t a young woman anymore, but she remembered that the world looked ripe to take if one had the courage. Every problem had seemed surmountable with enough enthusiasm, and “slow and steady” hadn’t even entered her vocabulary. But her current methods were successful. They might not be as flashy and immediate as Margaret would have liked, dazzled as she was by the revolution’s quick victories, but Lia knew better than to leave a shallow foundation behind.

“I suppose… At least there haven't been too many problems with all the foreign vessels that arrived. I was surprised when the order came to allow them to moor as long as they didn’t break the law, with how enthusiastic the Hero had been in kicking them out, but they have behaved so far.” Margaret replied, as all teenagers not wanting to give up the last word.

Lia chuckled, peering over the rim of a large cauldron to check that the newest batch of Restorative Potion was coming along. Most people wouldn’t have bothered with what amounted to little more than a pick-me-up, but field testing had shown that soldiers performed much better if they knew they could expend their energy and recover it in a flash.

Just as they were settling back into their brewing, a knock at the door interrupted their work. A young guard, looking slightly out of breath, entered the room. “Madam Minister, ma’am, we have a situation at the port.”

Lia’s wrinkly brow furrowed. “What happened?”

“A clash between some of the freemen and a ship crew from Hammerfest,” the guard reported. “The crew was making provocative comments, saying they would buy people at a fair price. They don’t have slaves in their hull, so we let them moor as you told us, but they’ve been pushing it. They also seemed confident they could get away before any serious repercussions, which made the group that was working as dockhands mad.”

Lia sighed, shaking her head. “Very well. Margaret, get a few of the burliest soldiers from the Security Forces. We need to address this personally.”

Margaret nodded and quickly left to gather the men. Lia turned to the guard. “Make sure the direct offenders are detained. We’ll throw them in jail for a couple of days. Let’s see if that doesn’t cool their heads.”

Within minutes, Lia, Margaret, and a small contingent of imposing soldiers made their way to the port. The tension in the air was palpable, and the crowd that had formed to watch the spectacle parted as they approached.

Lia assessed the situation with a practiced eye. The soldiers were already holding back a few men from both sides, and though the violence had stopped, it could restart at any moment. Given the rebellious look of the Festese sailors, she needed to put an immediate end to any bellicose idea.

Lia strode forward, pushing mana out of her body so that everyone could feel it pressing down. It wasn’t something she had needed to do much since her retirement in Alpar, but she was more than capable of putting a few Apprentices and Journeymen in their place. “Enough!” she called out, her voice strong and authoritative.

The crowd quieted, and Lia turned her gaze to the man who had to be the captain of the Hammerfest ship, given the more expensive clothes and feathered hat. He had a very punchable, smug look on his face. “Captain, you know perfectly well that slavery is illegal here. Your men’s behavior is unacceptable.”

The captain scoffed. “My men never broke your laws. We were simply checking the market since this was a lucrative stop on our routes before you took over. Release my men and apologize, and we’ll forget this ever happened. You need our supplies, old woman. You can’t afford to alienate Hammerfest.”

Lia’s eyes narrowed. “We might be unable to avoid trade with Hammerfest, but we can bar you and your men from our port. Test me, and you’ll find your ship and crew unwelcome in any harbor we control, once you get out of jail.” The SF soldiers she had brought along loomed, using their stature to the fullest.

The captain’s smug expression faltered. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Try me,” Lia said coldly. “Your men will spend a few days cooling off, enjoying my hospitality in our best cells. Next time, they will be permanently barred. Do I make myself clear?”

Unfortunately, this was as far as she could push it, and the man knew it. He also knew that trying to ask for more now that she had drawn a line in front of so many people would only end in pain, so he swallowed his pride and nodded, “Clear.”

Lia turned to the crowd, her voice carrying authority and reassurance. “This is a free land now. Provocations will not be tolerated, but neither will violence. If you have problems with how someone behaves, you go to the Security Force. That’s what they are there for.”

The captain swept away soon after, taking his remaining crew with him. Lia doubted she’d see him again if he could avoid it.

The soldiers led the offending men away, and Lia was about to call it a day when she felt Margaret’s eyes on her. The girl was evidently dissatisfied with something but at least had the good sense to wait until they had left the port.

Once they were back at the mayoral mansion and the guards had left for their posts, Margaret’s patience finally wore thin. As soon as the doors closed behind them, she exploded with frustration.

“We should have thrown the entire crew into the dungeons!” Her voice was sharp, echoing in the grand hall. “We need to show the Hammerfest Empire that we won’t be bullied anymore. They can’t come here and flaunt our rules without consequences!”

Lia sighed, the weariness of years settling on her shoulders. She gestured for Margaret to follow her to the study. Once inside, she closed the door and turned to her apprentice with a stern expression. “Girl, our job is to steward the growth of the freed lands, not to open an entirely new conflict. We’re already stretched thin as it is.”

“But they were openly mocking us, challenging our authority,” Margaret insisted. “How could you let them get away with it?”

There was something more to the girl’s complaints, and Lia suspected it had to do with having been left behind while Oliver got to follow his mentor, but she wasn’t about to spend her afternoon listening to a teenage girl’s rants.

“I didn’t let them get away with it,” Lia said calmly. “I detained the worst offenders and sent a clear message—both to the foreigners and our people—that only the Revolutionary Government has authority. However, we cannot afford to escalate the situation unnecessarily. Leonard put me in charge because he knew I could navigate these tense moments without creating more trouble. While I’m sure I could have found a good reason to detain the entire crew, it would have cost us more than a moment of satisfaction could give.”

Margaret’s face was flushed with frustration. “But if we don’t stand up to them now, they’ll think we’re weak. They’ll keep pushing and testing our limits until they can go back to plundering and stealing our people.”

The problem with Margaret was that she was an intelligent young woman. Even in the throes of anger, she could articulate herself well enough to make sense. If Lia used her authority to shoot her down, the girl would start plotting something she couldn’t see coming. “And that’s why we need to be strategic. We need supplies from the southern states, whether we like them or not. If we alienate Hammerfest entirely, we risk a reprisal that could cripple us. The Hero can’t be everywhere, and we can’t rely on his presence to solve all our problems.” Then she lifted a hand, stopping the complaint before it could be expressed, “That doesn’t mean I’ll allow those slaving scum to make a mockery of our principles. I told the captain that this would be his only chance, and I meant it. Any further provocation will be punished harshly.”

Margaret clenched her fists, her knuckles white. “I just wish we could do more to help.”

“We are doing more,” Lia said firmly. “By maintaining order and fostering growth, we are showing strength. Not every battle is fought with swords and spells. Sometimes, it’s about diplomacy and patience. We need to build a lasting foundation, not just win quick victories that could lead to long-term instability.”

Margaret took a deep breath, trying to let Lia’s words sink in. “I understand, but watching them disrespect us is hard.”

“It is hard,” Lia agreed, her voice softening, taking the girl’s hands in hers. “But remember, the true strength of the Revolution is not just in our ability to fight—the nobles were plenty good at hitting each other—but in our ability to build a better future. We must choose our battles wisely. The Hero might win any duel, but we are just as important to the stability of our new nation. You took over several classes to teach the ex-slaves alchemy and ingredient cultivation, which will help much more than any single soldier might. It’s less flashy, but it is just as important.”

Chapter 61 - Too Clever - Luke Smith 1

“They keep probing us, m’lud. Not enough to be a real attack, but they are still so annoying that we can’t risk regrouping.”

Luke nodded distractedly, dismissing the old scout to return to his position. It wouldn’t do to have his best men away from the observation posts while the enemy was probing them. He had them built for a reason.

“They’re keeping the pressure high. I don’t know how they manage to find us every time, but they obviously have an intel advantage.” He finally said, standing up, and the two lordlings assigned to him—the ones smart enough to know better than to try and order him around and who hadn’t met an ugly end as a consequence—hurried to follow him.

Luke didn’t let that go to his head. He was only being treated so obsequiously because his men knew very well they had been sent out on a suicide mission by the General to slow the rebels down—and of his reputation as a maverick who had survived much worse. While the orders hadn’t explicitly been to sacrifice themselves to do so, it was implied that they should fight to the last man to grant Count Pollus time to reach Treon.

Since Luke, despite his low birth, had seen some success driving the voidlings back and had even personally fought two battles with the Hero, he was widely considered the man with the best shot.

Leaving the little tent village that served as his Corp’s base camp, Luke made for a nearby hill where he could better observe the marsh. It would have made a great observation post, but it was too open for a permanent one. If he augmented his eyesight, he could see Stonebridge, where the enemy was now camped.

“If only we hadn’t lost the bridge,” one of his adjutants complained, and though Luke could agree with the sentiment, he still glared, having been clear that any negative thought was to be kept private. They were already in a deep enough mess without any doomers.

Casting [Eagle Sight] took only a moment of concentration, and Luke could see the buzzing rebel army. He had initially been surprised that they weren’t doing anything to shield their movements from observation, but after several engagements where his men were forced to run lest they be annihilated, he understood they had nothing to fear. Even if he knew exactly what they were up to, without the power to do anything about it, it was useless information.

And I doubt their best stuff is out in the open. I still haven’t found how they were able to overwhelm the cannon battery at Stonebridge. I’m sure it wasn’t the Hero. I had eyes on him, and the Mistress of Shadows is still near Volten.

“Where did the scout indicate they were pushing?” He asked out loud.

“Ah, they are trying to find our weak spots.” One of his noble brats replied.

“They’re trying to close their jaws around us,” Luke tsked, annoyed for not having seen it before. It was one of the Hero’s favorite tactics during the Incursion, too. “They have superior numbers and better intelligence, but we are faster. They cannot leave us behind. It’s the only thing that makes sense. Fuck, we might have to retreat again.”

It would be a significant setback. They were only a few days of forced march from Treon, and the men were already exhausted. However, staying put meant certain death—the Hero might be more merciful if he met an old comrade, but considering what the rumors said he had done to the nobles of the conquered towns, Luke wouldn’t bet his men’s lives on it. He quickly weighed his options and made a decision. Walking down the hill, he gathered his officers for a quick briefing.

“We cannot stay here any longer,” he announced once they were all in his tent, his tone brooking no argument. “If we wait, we’ll be encircled and wiped out. We’ll be retreating in small groups to avoid detection. Each group will take a different route and converge on the village of Hillcrest, a day’s march to the west. That was the red line the General gave me, and I’ll respect it, but sacrificing ourselves now would be pointless.”

A murmur of discontent rippled through the officers, but Luke silenced them with a raised hand. “I know it’s risky, but it’s our best chance. I’ll take the north road, which is the most likely to be attacked. The rest of you will spread out and hopefully reach Hillcrest without meeting the enemy. Take care of your men and get to where you need to be. Dismissed.”

As the officers dispersed to relay the orders, Luke turned to his closest aides, a grizzled veteran named Beor and a young but capable sergeant named Elara. “I’ll need you two to keep an eye on the noble brats. They might not be useful in battle, but their voices are worth twice mine in a meeting with the brass.”

Beor frowned. “Luke, you know the main road is suicide. They’ll surely be watching it. Let me take it. You’re the Captain. The men need you.”

Luke shook his head firmly. “No. If anyone can hold off an ambush and buy time for the others, it’s me. I’ve faced worse odds and come out alive. Besides, I need you to lead the rest of the men if I don’t make it. You’re the only one I trust to hold Hillcrest until General Locke can get there. That’s an order.” He tacked on last, preventing any further complaint.

Beor’s jaw tightened, but he nodded. “Understood, sir.”

Elara was pale but resolutely stepped forward. “I’m coming with you, then. You’ll need someone to watch your back.”

Luke allowed himself a small smile. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.” He wouldn’t do her the disservice of sending her away. What they shared might not be love, but there was affection. He would never leave her alone to face her death if the parts were swapped.

They moved quickly, breaking camp and heading towards the main road. Luke’s small group consisted of Elara, the old scout who reported to him earlier that day, and a handful of handpicked soldiers. They made good time through the marsh, the squelching mud and thick underbrush slowing them down but not stopping them. They managed to reach the paved path before noon.

It was enough to put Luke in a good mood. He knew better than to count himself safe, but at least this delay in an attack meant that his men should be able to make it to Hillcrest.

“It’s too quiet,” Elara muttered, looking around shiftily.

“The marsh animals and monsters know better than to reveal themselves with this much movement, m’lady.” The ranger answered distractedly, keeping an eye on their surroundings.

“That’s something at least. I wouldn’t want to have to fight the rebels and a troll tribe at the same time.” A soldier muttered, earning a snort from the scout.

“Trolls don’t get this close to roads. The real problem here is the salamanders. They suck you in through the mud, and before anyone can do anything about it, you have already been digested.”

Luke rolled his eyes, knowing better than to believe any tale, but didn’t interrupt the old man’s amusement. He might as well let off some steam if they had to die.

His enhanced eyes spotted movement from the north only a few hours into their march. He raised a fist, signaling a halt. The squad of revolutionaries was well-camouflaged, but Luke was too paranoid to be caught with his pants down. It helped that the old scout had signaled earlier that something was coming as the winds shifted.

“Get ready,” he whispered, drawing his sword. “We’ve got company.” His men followed his lead immediately, closing ranks and preparing to face off the enemy.

The rebels emerged from the underbrush, weapons drawn. Their leader, a burly man with a scar on his cheek, grinned menacingly. “Well, well, what do we have here? Trying to sneak away, are you?”

Luke managed to stop himself from rolling his eyes this time. A bit of banter was to be expected, but being this cliché hinted that there was something else going on. Likely another group encircling them, even though he couldn’t look without taking his eyes off the man.

“Just taking a stroll,” Luke replied with a smirk, his voice calm despite the tension. “Thought we’d enjoy the fresh air.”

The rebel leader laughed, a genuine sound that seemed to surprise his men. “And you thought to get it here, in a swamp?”

Luke shrugged. “I never said I was a healer. How about you? Enjoying your little revolution?”

The leader's grin widened. “Best decision of my life. Freeing the oppressed, fighting for justice. We even have healthcare and training. You should try it sometime. Much better than what the nobles offer.”

“Ah, that does sound good. Sir Weiss always ensured everyone was cared for during the Incursion.” Luke reminisced, making sure to imply he personally knew the man—even though he had only spoken with him a couple of times. Whether that was true or not, it only mattered that it would make the rebels less likely to kill him or his men.

A young man stepped forward at that, confused. “Why are you helping the slavers, then? You don’t seem like the type.”

Luke's expression turned serious. “I don’t care about the nobility, the slavers, or anyone else. But I have innocent men under my command, whom I’ll protect with my life. They didn’t choose this war, and they’re just trying to survive, same as you.”

The young rebel looked conflicted, but the leader's face hardened. “Can’t do nothing about it then. Surrender now, and no more blood needs to be spilled.” Luke felt a pang of regret.

For all their fervor, these revolutionaries were better people than many nobles he had met. But he couldn’t abandon his duty. “I can’t do that,” he said softly, gripping his sword tighter.

Sorry. He didn’t vocalize it, but the sentiment was understood.

With a resigned nod, the rebel leader raised his hand, signaling to attack. Luke reacted instantly, his sword slicing through the air. The wind howled, blasting a deep furrow in the ground, momentarily halting their charge and giving his men the time to prepare.

Three swordsmen rushed him simultaneously while a mage at the back began casting what looked like fire magic. Luke parried the first blow, ducked under the second, and deflected the third into the first man with a swift motion. He could feel the heat of the fireball as it whizzed past his head, a sudden gust of wind pushing it off course.

“Elara, get the mage!” Luke shouted, engaging the swordsmen with precise, powerful strikes. His blade moved with the fluidity of a dancer, keeping the three unbalanced by playing their relative clumsiness against each other.

It wasn’t that they were bad, per se. In fact, Luke would consider them all pretty talented if they were his men, and considering that these were likely ex-slaves or peasants, they were pretty good, but he was simply better.

Elara darted to the side, firing shimmering arrows at the mage, forcing him to split his attention. The rest of Luke’s men fought fiercely, digging in with their shields and holding their ground against the onslaught. It was a tactic he had ensured everyone under his command could follow in their sleep, and it paid off.

For a while, it seemed like they might prevail. Luke’s skill with the sword was unmatched, and his men fought with the desperation of those who knew their lives depended on it. The rebels were better armed, and their individual quality was higher, but Luke more than balanced the scales.

Predictably, that was when a new group of rebels emerged from the back, flanking them and pressing the attack.

“We need to pull back!” The old scout shouted, his voice strained as he fended off an attacker with his daggers.

Drawing on his mana, Luke focused, causing the winds to pick up around him. With a sweeping motion, he unleashed a twister of wind that pushed the rebels back, throwing them off balance.

“Fall back!” he ordered, using his air magic to create a barrier between his men and the rebels.

They ran like the hounds of hell were baying at their back, but Luke could see that the rebels weren’t about to give up just yet.

Using even more mana, Luke lifted his sword, grabbed hold of the sky above his head, and brought it all down.

The air trembled, and a downburst materialized out of nowhere, scattering the rebels away and sending boggy mud flying everywhere.

The attack was expensive to cast, but the effect was undeniable. He could have killed them all with a little more effort, and it looked like the rebel leader knew it.

Struggling to regain his footing, the man glared at Luke. “This isn’t over!”

Luke met his gaze with a steely determination. “No, it’s not. But for today, it is.”

With the path clear, Luke led his men away. They moved swiftly, making their way through the marsh and towards Hillcrest. The battle had taken its toll, but they were alive, and that was all that mattered for now.

He didn’t look at his companions, knowing he’d find a question on their faces that he couldn’t rightly answer.

I can’t say I expect us to lose and that I’m hedging my bets yet, but they’ll thank me later.

Chapter 62 - Muddy Business - Charry 5

Sifting through the rubble of a burned village wasn’t a pleasant task, but Charry had been ordered to ensure the main army’s path was free of obstacles, and he’d be damned if he left a trap behind.

He had finished combing through what had once been a granary and found several shoddily carved stones with runes that would react explosively to a significant increase in ambient mana. They weren’t much of a threat, with a radius of at most five feet, and they only went off when something was cast in their vicinity, but if the loyalists had the time to prepare those, they certainly had the time to set up something actually dangerous.

“Captain, we’re done looking through the eastern part of town. It looks like they just gathered everyone they could and left without a fight.”

Charry nodded in thanks to the man, turning the report over in his mind. There was something going on that didn’t convince him about this whole thing. It wasn’t that he had fallen for the revolutionary propaganda that the kingdom’s nobles were all actively malicious. Wasting so much time to collect everyone on the way to Treon felt too different from what he was used to seeing.

No, the Royal Army wouldn’t do something like this without a reason. Much more likely, they had decided to deny the revolution more fresh bodies. They might even be right, considering the conversion rate between conquered lands and recruits.

Yes, that sounds better. I still haven’t figured out something, but I can believe they are simply removing possible rebels from our path.

Rifling through his pockets, Charry took out the little device that made this whole operation possible. Archmage Franklin had been working hard to produce useful tools for every elite squad, and her latest invention—apparently inspired by something the Hero had said—made coordinating much more manageable.

That the young woman had also found the time to hold classes for all those interested in learning magic only made her worth rise significantly in everyone’s eyes.

Pushing some mana into the polished, rectangular stone, Charry spoke out loud, feeling a bit foolish even though he had done this several times, “This is Team 0 speaking. We have combed through Rattleshack and found nothing but explosive runestones and burned-out buildings. Over.”

A few seconds of silence passed, which he knew to expect and yet always made him cringe—he wasn’t used to speaking to a stone! Then, seemingly out of nowhere, a voice answered, “Team 0, this is Command Outpost Alfalfa. We have received your report. Wait for more instructions while the diviners complete the sweep. Over.”

And that was that. With the portable communication stones—an innovation of the likes Charry had never seen before and something sure to revolutionize warfare and civilian lives— the burden of leadership had been lifted off his shoulders. Now he could sit around and wait for new orders from people with a much better idea of the enemy’s movements.

“I should know better than to tempt fate. Fuck.” His muttered imprecation drew a few chuckles from his men, who were tiredly setting camp in the middle of a particularly insidious patch of swamp.

Being chased down by a very angry, very big salamander had not been the plan, but when a ton of mud-slinging monster emerged from the ground without notice, it tended to make everything else fall to the wayside.

Charry and his men had been lucky enough that the salamander wasn’t hungry. It just wanted them out of its territory. And while he could have ordered them to stand and fight, they would have wasted too much mana taking it down—if that was even possible.

My senses aren’t the most developed, but I can tell when something is a lot stronger than me. That thing was at least in the middle of Expert rank.

The detour had cost them a lot of hard marching through the swamp afterward, but they had managed to make it to the rendezvous point, where the other nearby teams would converge before they made their assault on Hillcrest, the last significant town that stood on their way to Treon.

“Will we fight the slavers tomorrow, or are we just supposed to keep pushing them back forever?”

Charry tiredly turned around. It was a young man who had spoken, a recently freed slave, if he remembered correctly, who had a natural talent for the sword and quickly caught up to those who had much more time to train.

I expected him to make trouble sooner or later. To his eyes, we’ve done a lot of running about and very little of actual substance. But if I had to stop and explain the reason behind everything I do to all my men, I’d never get anything done.

“We will do what we are asked to do. If the command tells us to attack the town, I’ll personally lead the charge. If they tell us to hide here, we’ll do that.” He answered calmly but firmly. There was no reason to make a fuss about an enthusiastic soldier, but he wouldn’t accept anyone questioning his actions. That way led to anarchy and General Doomspear had been clear that discipline had to be maintained. Charry knew all too well the consequences of being too lax.

The kid visibly swallowed his first retort, showing he had more brain than it looked. “I understand we have orders, but letting them take all the people seems wrong. There must be thousands of slaves being herded toward Treon right now.”

“Listen,” Charry sighed, his tone softer. “Not all operations are visible on the ground. There’s a bigger plan at play, and we need to have faith in the people above us to do their part. Our job is to follow orders and trust that what we’re doing here contributes to the larger goal.”

Before the young man could respond, Charry’s communication stone chimed. He held it up, his heart sinking slightly as he felt the familiar tingle of mana. “This is Team 0,” he said, his voice steady. “Go ahead.”

“Team 0, we have detected rapid movement from the north towards your camp,” the voice from Command Outpost Alfalfa reported. “Prepare for a possible attack. Over.”

Charry’s stomach tightened, but he didn’t let his men see his anxiety. “Understood. Over.” He turned to his men, his voice rising to command their attention. “Everyone up! We’ve got movement from the north. I want the rangers to give me specifics and everyone else to prepare to defend our position!”

The camp burst into controlled chaos as soldiers grabbed their weapons and started setting up. Charry quickly assessed their situation, his mind racing through possible scenarios. The information wasn’t that an enemy had been spotted but that a group of people was rapidly coming their way. Of course, they were likely to be enemy soldiers who had somehow known their exact position. However, considering their closeness to the road, was it not possible that something else was going on?

“Hold your fire!” He yelled, taking a gamble and deciding to wait until the rangers could report with more detail.

“Captain, look!” Elara pointed to the north, where figures were emerging from the underbrush. As they drew closer, it became clear he had made the right call. They were ragged, emaciated, and desperately running towards the camp.

“Slaves,” Charry muttered, instantly recognizing their garb.

The slaves saw the soldiers and began rushing toward them, shouting for help. Charry’s eyes narrowed. It seemed too good to be true. His instincts screamed trap, but he knew they couldn’t risk it.

“Should we help them, Captain?” one of the soldiers asked, echoing the sentiment of many.

Charry nodded, his mind working rapidly. “Form a perimeter around them, but don’t get too close. Be ready for anything. I’ll contact command for more information.”

He activated the communication stone again. “Command, this is Team 0. We have what appears to be a group of slaves running toward us, requesting help to transfer them away from the frontlines. Do you have any intel on this?”

The response was swift. “Team 0, we have reason to believe the slaves are real, but there’s a contingent of royal soldiers armed to the teeth right behind them. Be prepared for an imminent attack. Over.”

Ah, that’s where we get fucked in the ass. Good to know.

Charry’s jaw tightened. “Understood. Over.” He turned to his men, raising his voice to ensure everyone could hear. “The slaves are real, but there’s an enemy force right behind them. We need to coordinate their rescue and prepare for an attack.”

The tension was palpable as his men adjusted their positions, some moving to help the slaves get away while others reinforced their defenses. Charry quickly divided his forces, sending Elara and a small group to guide the slaves to safety while he and the rest prepared to greet the enemy soldiers.

The first royalists appeared as the last slaves were brought behind the lines. Charry’s eagle eyes scanned the advancing enemy, noting their disciplined formation and the glint of steel in the darkening sunset.

“Steady!” he called out, bringing his trusty rifle to the ready. “Hold your ground!”

More and more men streamed into the clearing, wading through the mud, and the reason for their confidence in attacking a rebel position became clear. This was an entire Corp, probably tasked with clearing a nearby village. Dozens of men kept coming until there must have been hundreds. Charry swallowed, wishing very hard General Doomspear was there with them.

I already informed command. If they have someone who can save us available, they’ll come. Until then, I need to act as if we’re on our own.

“Now! Fire!”

The royal soldiers also called the charge, their boots sloshing through the thick mud. Mana bullets cut through the air, mowing down the first line, but those behind them took their place. Charry moved quickly along the defensive line, scanning for weak points in their formation.

“Focus your fire on the flanks! Tanks, prepare for contact!” Charry commanded, his voice clear and steady despite the mounting dread in his chest. He took aim with his rifle, picking off an enemy marksman who was about to shoot down one of his men.

The battle unfolded with grim determination on both sides. Charry's men, though outnumbered, fought bravely, resolved to defend the fleeing slaves. Mud-splattered and weary, they held their ground, exchanging volleys of mana bullets with the advancing royal soldiers. Each burst of gunfire illuminated the battlefield briefly, casting stark shadows on the twisted trees and stagnant water.

Men fell on both sides, their cries mingling with the din of combat. Charry's heart ached with each loss, but he forced himself to remain focused. His rifle cracked again, taking down another enemy. His movements were fluid, almost instinctual. He was close to becoming an Expert. If only he could survive another day.

“Captain, they’re pushing through on the right!” Elara’s voice cut through the chaos, having come back sometime during the fighting.

Charry turned, spotting the breach. “I’ll reinforce them! Elara, take a team and prepare to cover the slaves’ retreat! Make sure they’re safe!”

Elara nodded stonily, understanding that he was giving her a chance to leave the battlefield alive and, in doing so, ordering her to leave him behind.

Charry's attention snapped back to the enemy, who were now dangerously close. He aimed and fired again, the recoil of his rifle a familiar comfort amidst the chaos.

The royal soldiers showed no signs of relenting. They kept marching forward with no hesitation, their formation tight and disciplined. Charry could see the hardened expressions on their faces, the resolve that mirrored his own. Numbers were in their favor, and if things continued as they were, they’d win simply through attrition. Already, he could see two dozen of his men dead or dying.

His growing dread was palpable. Despite their best efforts, the enemy continued to press forward, and their superior numbers and training were simply overwhelming. Charry kept taking down those who pushed too far ahead, but resignation grew.

That was when the clear sky above their heads rumbled.

Chapter 63 - War Breeds Innovation - Leonard 26

Watching the swampy marsh turn into dry, solid earth was more satisfying than he would have thought. Leonard was almost reminded of those videos he used to watch before falling asleep. It was a fleeting thought that belonged to a different life.

“Strangely satisfying… No, oddly satisfying. Yes, that was it.”

Jean quirked a brow at his muttering but knew him well enough to comment on it. “Some people would consider this a massive waste of mana, you know?” She commented instead.

“Some people would still be stuck in the swamp or in a neat column on the only road, where they’d be sitting ducks if Treon’s Air Force decides to finally enter the field.” He answered back, still staring ahead, seemingly without seeing anything.

“As far as I know, the bulk of the loyalists are still in the north-east. What’s the hurry, Leo?”

“Amelia is pretty sure Count Pollus has already realized the con, and it will be a matter of days before he understands she’s too entrenched to defeat quickly. He’ll leave behind a force large enough to keep her trapped and rush over here.” Leonard explained. Frankly, Amelia had more than delivered on her promise, and he felt that wasting the time she had gained would be a very poor surprise to welcome her back.

“Is that why you told me to stop manufacturing the reinforced carriages? I did think it was a bit odd, with how well they performed…” Jean murmured, tapping a finger on her lips. As always, she had an umbrella hovering above her, protecting her fair skin from the sunlight.

The mage corps continued in their task before them, drying vast swaths of swamp and smoothing out the path for the army. Fire spells made ad hoc for the occasion by Jean, water mages directing the flows of muddy waters away from the slowly emerging road and earth mages to compact the path all worked in unison. It was a far sight from how they had operated so far. It was obvious that while he and Amelia had managed to build a proper starting point, a real Archmage was needed to sculpt them into something extraordinary.

The rate at which innovations and useful artifacts emerged from the Revolution’s forges was also astonishing. Leonard had known Jean would be a force multiplier with her visionary understanding of magic and ability to train new casters quickly, but she had still exceeded his expectations. He didn’t like leaning on her too hard, especially since she was still busy organizing the orphans she had brought along, but she was just too useful.

“The armored carriages are very useful to quickly conquer new towns without the need for lengthy and arduous setup operations, and we’ll certainly need them once more after we have taken Treon and start marching toward Hassel, but for now, they are superfluous. General Locke had more than enough time to entrench himself and yet decided to send his most mobile men all around the region, trying to deny us recruits. The confrontation is inevitable at this point, no matter how much he might want to avoid it.”

Jean turned to face him, finally realizing something else was going on. “Oh, do you have an active spell? Wait, is that divination magic?! How have you made it this subtle?!”

The girl’s enthusiasm was almost enough for Leonard to lose focus, but he managed to steady his spell at the last moment and found his target with the last sweep. “There you are.” He murmured, satisfied. Then, to Jean, “I was inspired by our new divination division. They are doing great work, mostly by studying the subconscious talent of a kid Amelia picked up and developing it into specific spells. You should give their work a read. It’s fascinating.”

A wide smile overtook Jean’s features, and her eyes started to sparkle, “Oh, I’m definitely gonna do that as soon as we are done here.”

“Yes, I’m also looking forward to that. But for the moment, we need to take care of something. I have found the royalists’ staging ground.” Jean’s smile turned more devious at that, and Leonard found himself matching her anticipation.

It took more than Leonard would have liked. A lot more. It turned out that people had problems with their head of state going off on his own, no matter that he was more than capable of handling the entirety of the local royalists by himself. Still, Leonard knew how to choose his battles. He had sent a group of eager young men ahead, giving them all the relevant coordinates, and set about organizing the remaining troops so they could follow in case something went wrong. Jean took the time to skim the research he had brought along.

Already him taking his leave from the main camp was pushing it, especially with Jean at his side, but Gerard was more than capable of directing the army without him breathing on his neck.

In the meantime, he spent the wait time explaining to Jean the new divination spell that his men had worked out. Knowing just how deeply she had delved into the specifics of spell creation, Leonard didn’t bother editing his words and simply walked her through what he knew.

“Divination has always been a bit of an art form, reliant on the caster's intuition and innate talent,” Leonard began, his voice steady as they walked around the camp. “But David’s subconscious talent—he has the fortune of being a true seer, which even the main temple in Mellassoria cannot boast—was something we knew we had to replicate. What the divination team did was remarkable. Using Amelia’s initial observations and data as a base, they deconstructed his abilities into a set of increasingly difficult spells, requiring some knowledge in mathematics, probability, and geometry. We haven’t yet managed to cast a true future sight, as it becomes exponentially more expensive the further away we try to look, but what we have is already changing the game.”

With a self-deprecating chuckle at her deadpan look—Jean knew perfectly well he was an unending wellspring of mana—he admitted, “I can technically look into the future if I really go for it, but it requires a ridiculous amount just to know what will happen in an hour, much less a day. We think David’s talent touches into a different mechanic we haven’t isolated yet to circumvent this.”

Jean nodded, her keen mind already piecing together the principles. “I’ve gone through their early papers but haven’t managed to start the practical bits. They mentioned using complex arithmetic to model the probability fields—something I didn’t even know was widely known outside Mellassoria’s Magic Tower, by the way. Is that what we’re dealing with here?”

Leonard smiled, impressed as always by Jean’s quick grasp of concepts. “Exactly. By mapping out the nightly visions, they created a spell matrix that rapidly goes through possible locations based on known variables. There is a bit of sensory magic to locate specific signatures that speeds things along, but it’s marginal compared to the accurate predictions that lead there.”

“Ah, I see. So you’ve basically extracted the understandable basics of this seer’s ability and plugged the gaps with already-proven magic. It might not be future sight, but it’s far above any other proprioceptive magic I know.” Jean’s eyes were sparkling now, showing just how much she enjoyed this kind of work.

Leonard proceeded to sketch the spell matrix with a touch of Light, allowing her to get a good look. “The basic work is Amelia’s. Apparently, it’s surprisingly similar to summoning magic.”

Jean’s grin widened as she examined the spell. “So, it’s almost like a rudimentary mind. It can adapt and receive a ton of information without buckling. That’s brilliant. It takes the guesswork out of divination and makes it something you can teach and standardize.”

Leonard let the Light go and gestured for her to take a crack at it. Most people would hesitate to experiment with such complex magic, especially without much practice, but Jean didn’t let that stop her.

She closed her eyes briefly, then opened them, her gaze sharper and more focused. “I see… it’s like the spell is building a map in my mind, pinging the most probable locations.”

She frowned slightly, thinking hard. “But it seems inefficient. The search matrix is trying to cover an area that is too broad. What if we refined the variables more precisely? We know we are looking for mostly male humans with above-average mana reserves. We should be able to filter a lot with just a small adjustment.”

Leonard’s smile widened. “That’s exactly what I hoped you’d say. I’ve been thinking the same thing. I have fiddled with incorporating more data myself, but I haven’t had the time to get it working automatically and had to do that part manually.”

Jean deftly drew the spell’s structure with her mana, as if she hadn’t just seen it for the first time. “There’s another thing. The current matrix relies on us knowing what we’re looking for. But I remember the paper implying the nature of future sight gave automatic filtering. If we can implement even just that mechanism, we might end up with a real beauty.”

Together, they spent some time going over the spell’s matrix and refining rough patches. It was exciting work, and time passed quickly enough that Leonard was surprised when the shadow he had tailing the strike force alerted him that something was happening.

He quickly turned away from their intricate spellwork, his senses prickling with unease. He cast the newly enhanced divination spell and, in short order, was peering intently at the men making their way through the swamp. What he saw made his jaw clench.

This is on me. I should have known better than to send them without anyone who could handle a real threat.

The soldiers, eager and full of bravado, had been led in circles around a particularly gnarly part of the marsh. Leonard's spell highlighted the dangerous creatures lurking in the murky water around them, their eyes gleaming malevolently in the dim light. Several men lay still, either dead or gravely injured, victims of both the treacherous terrain and the beings that called it home.

"Dammit," Leonard muttered under his breath, his jaw clenching tightly. He widened the spell's focus, searching for the source of the trouble. It didn’t take long for him to find it. Further west, through the thick foliage and beyond a deceptive tangle of muddy plants, he saw him, the one man he had hoped would desert the call to arms: Luke Smith, an Expert-tier soldier and a man Leonard knew all too well. His strategic mind was second to none, and Leonard could see the telltale signs of his handiwork in the strike team's predicament.

They had met and fought together against the Void, and while Leonard was by far superior in personal might, he had a healthy respect for the man’s sharp mind.

Luke stood on a slight rise, overseeing the chaos with grim satisfaction. His posture was relaxed, confident—too confident. Leonard’s blood boiled. How easily his men had been outplayed, maneuvered into a death trap by someone who knew the swamp's every twist and turn.

Leonard had known it was likely they’d meet again. The other man was simply too talented to fade away, but he had hoped for it to be under better circumstances. Ideally, he’d capture him and offer a position in the revolutionary army’s command, where his intellect could be put to better use.

Unfortunately, it looked like General Locke had gotten to him, and seeing that he was far away from the main army, had likely given him control of the disruptive operations meant to keep Leonard away from Treon.

Almost as if his anger was enough to transcend space, Luke abruptly turned away from the scene, staring at the sky as if he had felt something looking down.

By then, Leonard had already returned to his body, unwilling to waste precious time. The spell’s energy dissipated forcefully, leaving a faint shimmer before fading. His voice, usually measured and composed, resonated with a forceful authority as he enhanced it magically to carry across the clearing. "Break camp! Prepare to march west immediately!" The command echoed through the air, startling nearby soldiers into swift action.

Leonard's eyes blazed with Holy Light. "We’re moving out now! The time to fight General Locke's army has come!"

Chapter 64 - Battle of the Swamp - Leonard 27

Leonard swung his sword, and another man died.

It was apparent by now that Treon’s rearguard was trying its best to stall for time, hoping that if they held on just a little longer, General Locke would come tearing down the marsh and send the rebels fleeing, but that worked just as well for Leonard’s purpose.

Not bothering to dodge a blow coming directly for his neck, he stepped forward, the enemy’s lance shattering upon contact with his armor, and thrust his fist through the unfortunate man’s chest.

Usually, such a brutal display would have been enough to halt the fighting. Leonard had even expected it to be another delaying tactic. If the royalist soldiers surrendered en masse, processing them would have taken precious time, but Luke Smith knew better than to be too clever. Or at least, he was subtle enough in his plotting that Leonard couldn’t figure it out.

Another swing of his sword, another man died.

The revolutionaries behind him pushed forward gleefully, taking advantage of the unstoppable wedge that he was forming with his butchery and forcing the royalists to bunch up.

Just as they were waiting for Locke to save them, Leonard had sent the call for the main army to break camp and join him, and if he had to hold the position by himself to guarantee the General couldn’t set up his defenses, he would do it.

That is all contingent on Locke abandoning his fortified hill to save the advance force he sent to slow us down. If he was really so callous to send them to their deaths, then this will be a needless carnage, but I don’t think he can afford to stay back.

It was a big gamble. The intel division seemed confident that while the General was a cautious man and would prefer having as many advantages as possible before fighting, Treon’s nobles were much less patient. It all came down to whether he could afford to ignore a direct order from Count Luster-Treon to take the field and fight the rebels once and for all or if he had the balls to usurp command.

That would require that he deliberately go against an order from his superior. Of course, if he does that and then wins, he could spin it as a simple misunderstanding, but he can’t afford to wait too long. If he stays back, he gambles that we’ll be more pressed for time than he is and attack us. We’re both relying on luck, but I have more advantages this time.

The loyalist morale would plummet if they learned that one of their best commanders, Luke Smith, and hundreds of others were left to their deaths simply because their General didn’t want to fight in an open field.

Locke might have been a good tactician, but the rules of nobility bound him. He couldn’t allow his name to be so besmirched.

A wind blade flashed his way, strong enough to cut through a tree, and Leonard angled Dyeus up, redirecting it with ease. Behind it, a hail of bullets followed, not harming him but forcing him to stop his advance momentarily, giving the cringing soldiers before him a few seconds to reorganize.

Leonard allowed the diversion to work, if only because time was on his side, unlike what the poor men facing him believed.

As soon as the barrage ended, he stepped forth again, crashing into the hastily constructed shield wall with a bellow.

He kicked the first tank, bowling him over and creating an opening that the nearby soldiers swiftly plugged.

Leonard was pleasantly surprised that these men were made of sterner stuff than most other loyalists he had encountered so far. Especially because he intended to recruit them once the battle was over. [Resurrection] was handy like that.

Another wind blade screamed through the air, intending to force him back. Leonard took it head-on this time, unflinchingly marching through it and cutting down another man.

The enemy ranks opened up, seemingly in response to the sudden death. Immediately after, a hail of mana bullets followed, doing more to obscure Leonard’s vision than to harm him.

And yet, once the attack was over, he found himself once more beset by enemies, seemingly untiring despite the certainty that clashing with him would lead to their deaths.

I can respect that. This is obviously Smith’s handiwork, but the men are dutifully following along.

Another skull was caved in. Leonard abruptly changed direction, aiming away from the backlines and toward the cluster of enemy soldiers, who he was sure hid the enemy commander. That sent the soldiers into a frenzy.

Much like an ant colony, they swarmed him, sacrificing their lives without care to give their leader time to flee. Men died one after the other, their discipline forgotten in the frenzy.

It was enough to cement Leonard’s idea of resurrecting them all. It was something he had done less and less with how large the overall conflict had become, as he couldn’t be present everywhere, and even for him, there was a time limit.

But these men, enemies they might be, had nothing but pure dedication and devotion for their captain in their hearts as they died. There was no spare thought for their homeland, no loyalty to distant nobles. Only for the man who had spent weeks, if not months, forging them into a force to be reckoned with when he was expected to send them to their death.

Once again, after the frenzy abated, Leonard found himself facing away from his initial target, having been successfully redirected.

The battle had been going on barely for thirty minutes, and yet more than a hundred men were already dead, with more injured being pulled from the frontline to be healed and sent back into the thick of it as soon as possible.

Leonard’s men were eager to prove themselves and assured of victory thanks to his presence. This meant more injuries than average, but also that the enemy was on the back foot, not having expected to face such a determined assault.

All of this happened against the backdrop of the sleepy village of Hillcrest, a town worth noting on a map only for its proximity to Treon, which usually served as a rest stop for merchants and travelers. The local population had long since been evacuated, so Leonard felt no remorse for what would happen should his prediction be correct.

Rivulets of blood ran through the marsh, mixing with the mud and turning the battlefield into a hellish landscape.

At one point, Leonard was forced to abandon his assault to relieve the northern flank, where the enemy fire was concentrated. It risked buckling, and while the soldiers would eventually fall to his blade, any loss of life he could spare was worth taking a few seconds to address.

All in all, the battle was remarkably organized. Leonard was facing desperate resistance wherever he turned, and each time he made for a target, he was redirected by Smith’s machinations. While he wouldn’t say he was being curtailed—his kill count was beyond stunning by now— he was halfway between admiring and frustrated at how efficiently the enemy commander was handling the chaos of the battle.

I’m almost tempted to force my way to him and put an end to this, but momentary satisfaction is not worth risking the overall plan. That’s become my motto as of late. I’ll have to earmark some occasion to let off steam sooner or later; this is just too annoying.

A flicker in his own shadow told Leonard that his gamble had paid off well before anyone else realized it. Hidden under his helm, a grin spread, and his eyes crinkled.

General Locke had taken the bait.

The bulk of Treon’s army was mostly made up of infantrymen, with two Corps of elite knights astride majestic horses—creatures bred and raised as companions that required constant care and training to maintain but that were known for their unflinching disposition before enemy blades, and that could easily charge through a crowd of rebellious peasants without suffering a scratch.

One wouldn’t be remiss in thinking that so many mounted knights thundering toward a single target would be enough to turn any battle’s tides. Indeed, historically, whenever a company of mounted knights appeared—unless faced with equal opposition—little but the most prepared enemy could hope to win.

Leonard had been expecting and preparing for this charge since he first decided to rebel against the crown.

He had seen firsthand the level of damage these elites could wreak on an unsuspecting enemy. Armies of thousands of voidling had been scattered and chased down more than once by them. Unless a Scourge was around, their appearance sentenced the end of the monsters.

Thus, the moment the first knight crested the eponymous hill of Hillcrest, Leonard was ready. He sent a tiny ripple of mana through his passenger, who shuddered at the contact but dutifully departed.

As more and more of them appeared at the top from behind the houses, the men around him began to take notice. While still extremely wary of any movement from him, their cheer was visible. It was evident they believed the tide would now be turning.

To be fair to Luke Smith, who was undoubtedly the architect of the pressure campaign around this move, it should have worked. Six hundred mounted knights, all Journeymen and Experts, with possibly a Master leading them, were more than enough to handle the three hundred men Leonard had brought along, especially with how tired they were after such a long fight.

He was at the hill’s bottom, in a strategically viable position to fight Smith’s men, but somewhere that would become a death trap with the knights’ appearance. He should have been exhausted fending off hundreds of men, leading the charge, and receiving several direct hits from mages and riflemen alike.

Having eyes in their camp really is unfair. I could have blown up the hill by myself, to be honest, and called it a day, but being able to prepare in advance is such an advantage that it makes me almost feel bad. Almost.

The earth began to shake as hundreds charged down the hill. The horses’ hooves thundered, a sound that should have sent the rebels fleeing into a panic.

And yet, no one moved.

It was the first sign that something was wrong. It was also already too late to do anything about it. A shield flickered around the charging knights, but nothing could hold back what was coming.

BOOOM! BOOOM! BOOOM!

Entire chunks of the hill vaporized on contact as three [Titanic Jets], spells of the fourth tier powerful enough to fry a griffin in one blow, struck down.

Tons of debris momentarily obscured the sky. The earth shook with enough strength to topple the few houses that had survived the barrage, and whatever wildlife had stayed around for the battle overcame their instinctive terror to flee as far away as they could.

Having never displayed such might before, and certainly not without Leonard’s intervention, the enemy cavalry was entirely unprepared to face the Revolutionary Mage Corps’ wrath, especially when they were led by the youngest Archmage in Haylich’s history.

With a wave of his hand, Leonard caused a ripple in the air that grabbed hold of the tons of earth, stone, and flesh still suspended in the air and brought it down beyond the battlefield.

The loyalists’ shock couldn’t be overstated. Men struggled to understand what their eyes told them had happened. Weapons slid off suddenly slack grips. Mouths hung open.

Leonard’s mages had eliminated the most mobile force under General Locke’s command in a single stroke. It was such a devastating loss that he wouldn’t be surprised should the man immediately call for a retreat rather than take the field.

Leonard didn’t allow him the chance.

A low horn echoed through the sudden silence, dispelling much of the shock and replacing it with dawning horror.

Thousands of men emerged from the eastern swamp, the mud under their feet solidifying in time with their every step, crafting a stone road where there had once been none.

The revolutionary army had arrived.

Chapter 65 - To Reach Beyond - Oliver 6

Turns out, battles with more than ten thousand soldiers didn’t end just because of a shocking loss, especially when both armies were made of veterans—or at least people with months of experience on the battlefield.

Oliver had hoped that the astonishment of seeing the much-vaunted cavalry vaporized would have been enough to send General Locke’s men fleeing for their lives. Unfortunately, either the man himself had an iron grip over their state of mind—something that couldn’t actually be ruled out, given that he was known to be a competent commander with a long experience—or the loyalists were so sure they’d die if they scattered that they jointly decided to keep fighting to have a chance.

Cutting down his fifth enemy, Oliver strained to believe the second option. In the end, it didn’t really matter, as the result was the same, but having to mow down men who would potentially surrender without their commander’s influence tasted bitter.

“Hyah!” One of the few mounted knights left shouted, swinging his sword down in what should have been a decapitating strike, which that was met with a seemingly impossible blow from below. Oliver’s skill with the basic set of buffing spells required of a Paladin allowed him to outmaneuver almost anyone—especially those limited by being on a horse without the benefit of a company of fellows to scatter the infantry.

Sir Leonard had been right to insist he master the basics before moving on to fancier skills. Despite the increase in power most people experienced as they fought repeated battles, they still behaved as if their opponents would react like ordinary people. That was not what would happen, and being able to deal with the difference was the hallmark of a true fighter.

Oliver abruptly pivoted again, letting a spear pass harmlessly by his side, only to use the same momentum to push his sword through the warhorse’s protection.

Mana sparked momentarily as the tip of his sword faced the enchantment until the spell broke down, overwhelmed, and the beast collapsed, missing its posterior leg.

Oliver didn’t bother fending off the rifleman aiming his way, trusting in the additional protections Lady Franklin had placed on his armor after she learned he was Sir Leonard’s squire.

Another step forward, and he was next to the struggling knight, who was desperately trying to push the dying horse off his leg. The damage wasn’t enough to kill him, and Oliver doubted the bone had even broken, given that he could feel a Journeyman’s aura from him, but his movements were hampered enough that he could do nothing to shield from his [Thrust].

Leaving behind the dead man, Oliver didn’t push beyond the front line, instead preferring to lend support where the revolutionaries were having the most trouble. While he would have liked to lose himself in the fighting, the incredible amount of protective charms and equipment he wore meant he could be a real game changer everywhere he went, and he wouldn’t feel right if his selfish decision meant good people died.

Especially since [Resurrection] wasn’t a perfect spell. Most people could be returned to life, yes, but even Sir Leonard wasn’t omnipotent, as much as he looked the part most of the time.

All in all, the battle was going well. Treon’s army wasn’t giving up anytime soon, but they were firmly on the backfoot now that their surprise had been turned around.

The air was thick with the sounds of clashing steel, the cries of the wounded, and the distant, thunderous roar of artillery. From where he was, in the thick of the fighting, Oliver couldn’t see it. Still, he knew from the planning sessions that General Dortmund had placed a Corp of riflemen guarding the moving carriages at the southern edge of the battle, meant to prevent any possible encirclement or last-minute support from the south.

Ahead, beyond the melee, a massive duel caught his attention. General Doomspear, the Revolution’s newest Master, was locked in a deadly dance with an enemy soldier, though calling his opponent a soldier was reductive. The visible aura of power around him marked him as a high-ranking knight, perhaps even Locke’s right-hand man.

Oliver was too far to get a good idea of the specifics, but he was confident it was at least an Expert and likely a Master. It had to be to dare face a man of Gareth Doomspear’s status.

Slowly, the men around him started paying more attention to the clash as the energies became impossible to ignore. Lightning arced through the sky, illuminating the battlefield in stark, electric blue flashes. Each bolt cracked the ground, sending scores of enemy soldiers flying, their bodies charred and smoking.

The enemy knight countered with gusts of wind that howled through the battlefield like a furious storm, prevented from battering the revolutionary soldiers only by the Mage Corps’ hasty barriers.

He conjured powerful air slashes, each one rending the earth and slicing through anything unfortunate enough to be in their path. The sheer might of their attacks created a maelstrom of destruction. The middle of the battlefield quickly emptied as men fled from certain death.

Having personally witnessed Doomspear’s training to recover his control, Oliver was acutely aware of how close each of those bolts came to annihilating a good chunk of the frontline. And yet, despite the lightning being powerful enough to shake the earth, it only ever hit the intended target or the enemies behind it.

The royalist’s magic was less flashy but still powerful enough that Oliver wouldn’t want to be anywhere near it. Now that there weren’t knights bearing down on him, he could take a moment to analyze the duel, and the disparity in raw power quickly became evident.

I don’t know if he’s a particularly weak Master or a monstrously strong Expert, but he’s somehow bridging the gap in raw strength with his skill. He only uses enough mana to push the General back or force him into a difficult situation. That he’s doing so using air magic is even crazier.

Another slash of cutting wind forced the General away from his position and back to his initial one, where he could absorb the blow and protect the men who would have been split in two.

He didn’t seem to enjoy the underhanded trick, however, and replied with something so bright that it forced Oliver to look away, despite his numerous protections, lest he become blind. Thunder roiled over the battlefield, physically shaking soldiers inside their armor.

The next time he looked, Oliver found the two locked in direct combat and knew that the end of the duel was close. Despite the enemy knight's apparent skill and ability to last much longer than he rightly should have, the sheer disparity in power was not avoidable.

The ground below the two men’s feet cracked as Doomspear brought his weapon down, halted from cutting through his opponent only by a last-second explosion of compressed air.

What followed was too bright for Oliver to see, but he was able to confirm the General’s victory, as he was the only man standing once sight returned to him.

I’m pretty sure he couldn’t have survived that, and yet I felt… It had to be Sir Leonard. Only he could be so subtle. But why would he save him…

The consequences of the titanic duel rapidly manifested as Treon's army began to pull away. Slowly at first, the loyalist soldiers thinned out, attempting to maintain their lines. However, the creeping realization of their precarious position spread like wildfire through their ranks. Whoever it was that just lost the duel had to be a big deal, and more than that, they must have had a significant battlefield control skill because it had much more of an effect than the destruction of Hillcrest.

Panic set in when the front-line soldiers realized they were being left behind.

Some of Treon's soldiers, faced with the inevitability of their fate, chose to fight to the death, determined to give their comrades a chance to escape. These men fought with a desperate ferocity, their eyes blazing with resolve. Oliver cut down a few such men, their resistance vigorous but ultimately futile against his abilities. They were trained soldiers, men who spent their whole lives preparing for such battles, and yet he was like an adult among children. It felt humbling.

Others, however, lost all composure and broke into a full retreat, their terror overwhelming any sense of duty or honor. The chaos of their flight created openings in the royalist lines, which the Revolutionary Army exploited ruthlessly. Oliver ignored most of the fleeing soldiers, focusing instead on ensuring the weaker parts of the frontline did not suffer excessively from their opponents' newfound desperation. When the fight looked to be over, the worst mistakes were made.

I won’t let anything stain our victory.

As if to prove him right, a few massive bolts of dark energy arced from the rear of Treon's army, aimed at killing as many revolutionaries as possible with no regard for collateral damage.

Each spell warped the air with its power, promising devastation. Before they could land, massive waves of Holy power surged up to meet them, and a choking presence filled the battlefield, disintegrating the attacks into brilliant flashes of light.

Even a mana-blind person would have realized it was the Hero’s handiwork, though they’d be understandably confused that it was his first flashy show of presence during this whole battle, while he hadn’t been shy with his power before.

Oliver knew better. His mentor had set up things so that he’d progressively be needed less and less. Of course, he was ready to face any emergency, like those massive attacks would have been, but his army had proved in a pitched battle that it could hold its own against a competently commanded enemy.

Knowing that the mage corps were somewhere behind the lines, it was possible that his intervention wouldn’t have been needed at all, but his show of power had another side effect. Those men who had kept fighting but hadn’t come to grips with their impending death broke and ran as well, signaling the end.

The Revolutionary Army pressed the advantage, overwhelming defensive lines that had held so far with great ease. Now that their spirit was broken and the commanders gone, nothing could prevent the soldiers from realizing it was over. The royalists' retreat turned into a rout.

Through all of this, Oliver continued his self-assigned duty, ensuring no harm came to the exposed flanks as his comrades gave chase, at times overextending.

Whenever he engaged, he came out the victor, ending duels and clashes like an avenging angel. Each strike was precise, and each spell meticulously aimed to maximize its impact and minimize casualties among his men.

Eventually, the fighting began to subside. The pockets of resistance that had chosen to fight to the death were overwhelmed by the Revolutionary Army's superior coordination and morale. The remaining loyalists, realizing the futility of further combat, began to surrender en masse. Weapons sank into the churned ground, and hands were raised in defeat.

Even as the violence stopped, the battlefield didn’t fall silent. The cries of the wounded and dying—especially of those who realized the magnitude of their loss—rang clearly. Men shouted, asking for surrenders or begging for the suffering to end. Horses were put down or led away in the few cases they were amenable.

As more of the new prisoners were taken, another group of soldiers started roaming through the battlefield, gathering the corpses and dividing them between revolutionaries and loyalists. The latter were placed in a lower depression, around which dozens of mages took position, looking ready to act at any moment.

They waited silently, not taking their eyes off the dead soldiers. Oliver joined their ranks, still not used to what was about to happen.

Sir Leonard arrived then, and everyone held their breath. His eyes glowed, and he lifted his arms.

The dead came back to life.

Chapter 66 - Geniuses are Useful for Infodumps - Luke Smith 2

Luke tested his restraints and was unsurprised to find that there wasn’t any give. Not that he had expected the revolutionaries to be sloppy about this, especially after he had been so thoroughly outmaneuvered. But trying never hurt anyone.

“They won’t break. I spent the last hour tugging, and the only thing I got was sore wrists. I forgot how that feels after becoming a Journeyman.” Elara muttered from the cell in front of his, looking worse for wear but definitely still alive.

Which was weird, considering he was pretty sure she had been skewered through the head in front of his eyes during the battle.

They were currently underground, a clever way to ensure they couldn’t coordinate a rescue even if they had a means of communication. The cells were smooth dirt with iron bars. The work of a talented mage, who even had the charity to add a few mana crystals to the ceiling to provide dim light.

Attempting to spread his senses to check Elara wasn’t a ghoul or undead monstrosity rebounded harshly, making him hiss in pain.

Yeah, didn’t think that would work. I have been put under constraints by the Archmage of Treon, and they were less overwhelming than these.

Fortunately, the answer to all his questions rounded the corner.

“Ah, my lord! Should I call you my lord? I wouldn’t want to offend.” Luckily, his gamble paid off, and the most powerful man in Hassel didn’t take offense at his words. He even cracked a grin, which was better than expected.

“Luke Smith. I told you the last time we met that you would end up being trouble, and it looks like I was right. And Sir Weiss, or Grand Marshal, is fine.” Leonard Weiss replied, looking and sounding like he hadn’t just fought a massive battle. Another point for this being at least a day after.

“Sir Weiss, then. I don’t know what my status is as a prisoner, but I wouldn’t want to look disingenuous by bowing and scraping after leading a battle against you.” That was another gamble, based entirely on his hope that power and pain hadn’t changed the Hero too much from what he remembered. Again, he was proved correct as he was granted a smile.

“That’s fine. You are my guest in the temporary cells we built to house your men. You’ll be pleased to know that I was able to resurrect more than ninety percent of them. So far, all seventy who we’ve asked to defect and serve under the revolution have responded positively upon being assured that you’d be treated fairly. Your men are very grateful for your leadership, Sir Smith.”

“Technically not a knight, Sir Weiss. I was given command of the stalling operation, but my title remains that of a lowborn. General Locke couldn’t justify elevating me if my contributions during the Incursion weren’t enough to surpass the shame attached to my name.” The words tasted bitter on his tongue, but Luke had long since learned that his actual worth was detached by what society thought of him as a bastard of a noble house.

Leonard raised an eyebrow, his interest piqued. “Titles and bloodlines are of little concern to me. I judge a man by his actions and capabilities. And you, Luke Smith, have proven yourself more than capable. If I didn’t already know you, your show against Gareth would have been enough to convince me. Not everyone can fight an opponent an entire tier above them for so long.”

Luke allowed himself a small, tired smile. “High praise, coming from the Hero of the Light. But I must admit, I am surprised to find myself alive after the battle. Last I recall, my men and I were in dire straits. I’m almost certain Elara was dead, and I was about to join her.”

Leonard leaned casually against the iron bars, a hint of amusement dancing in his green eyes. “Even I have trouble reconciling with the ability to resurrect others. But I can assure you, all your men are healthy and hale. As for you, I didn’t quite need to go that far. A timely intervention was enough to spare your soul the trip.”

Luke's eyes widened, finally connecting the dots. “That’s far beyond what I’ve read past Champion could do! I've only heard of such power being within the realm of the divine or artifacts of immense power. How…?”

Leonard chuckled softly. “Let's just say I have a special relationship with the Light. It wasn't easy, but I deemed it necessary. Your men are valuable, and it’s a waste to let good soldiers die when they can be brought back to serve a better cause. Their loyalty to you only makes them more desirable.”

From the corner of his eye, Luke could see Elara barely contain a snort. She was always rebellious, and he genuinely appreciated that in her, but this wasn’t the right moment, so he silenced her with a swift glare.

Going by the amused tilt of his lips, the Hero had noticed, but Luke didn’t expect to be able to fool him. A being capable of resurrecting hundreds—thousands, if he extended the count to the revolutionaries that were no doubt also brought back—would not be limited by human constraints.

Luke gulped, suddenly feeling in a much more precarious position. He didn’t fear for his life, not since the monster before him had gone out of his way to save him, but the sheer possibilities going through his mind… He needed a while to process that.

Gathering his thoughts, Luke decided to move on. “So, what happens now? I assume General Locke managed to escape? He was always slippery and deliberately let my men take the brunt of the fighting.”

Leonard's expression grew serious. “Yes, he did. He was able to get to his prepared position by sacrificing a third of his army in the process. It’s a significant loss, but it’s quite an achievement considering the situation. He’s a cunning strategist, I’ll give him that.”

Luke nodded thoughtfully. “He is. But that means he’s still a threat to you. Can’t march on Treon if the army can attack you from behind.”

Leonard nodded. “Indeed. Which brings us to us. We need capable leaders and strategists, especially those who have relevant information. Your men trust you; most have already sworn loyalty to the revolution. The remaining holdouts will join up once they see you alive. I am offering you a chance to join us. Swear an oath to our cause, and I will give you a position worthy of your intelligence and skills.”

Implied was that he hadn’t been given such a role before, which was a truth Luke knew all too well. Being a bastard of noble birth wasn’t much of a stigma in his daily life—there were too many who could claim to have a few drops of aristocratic blood in their veins—but it significantly hampered him in his military career. It had gotten so bad that he had been sent on a suicide mission despite his proven record, and his commanding officer didn’t even have it out for him!

And then there was the creature before him. Luke didn’t know if he still believed it. He wouldn’t, not until he saw his men with his own eyes, but the fact that Elara was here—likely as proof, which meant the Revolution’s spies had gotten close enough to notice their relationship—was enough for him not to dismiss the claim.

A look at her was enough to know she’d follow his lead.

Luke studied Leonard’s face, searching for any sign of deceit. Finding none, he took a deep breath. “You ask a lot, Sir Weiss. But given the circumstances, I am inclined to accept. I can’t say I was pleased with being sent to die, and the cause of nobility in general is not one I have ever supported.”

The man he was pretty sure had to be an Ascended smiled, eyes glowing with a dim gold in the muted light. “I’ll take your oath later, but for now, welcome to the revolution, Luke Smith. I expect great things from you.”

The first action Luke took as an official Captain under the Revolution’s banner was to visit the intelligence department and inform them of everything he thought would be useful and more stuff he didn’t. The Grand Marshal had demonstrated how far his reach went, and he wouldn’t fail the first of many tests sure to come.

That done, and having ensured that his men were alive and not under duress, he dedicated himself to providing a quick victory for his new banner.

“The problem with Locke is that his shoulders are to the wall, and he knows it. Another direct engagement is out of the question, not with how poorly the last one went, and simply sitting still would mean abandoning the city to its fate.” Luke tapped his finger on a map, highlighting a patch of light green where Treon’s southern hills sat. The intelligence department had come through quickly and immediately confirmed where the General had taken his remaining forces. An initial assessment showed they were fortified enough to make them a difficult target for any conventional force.

It was lucky then that the Revolutionary Army was so much more than that.

“I still think we should take advantage of his condition and attack now. He'll have to surrender if we batter his defenses hard enough.” A young man, barely a teenager really, intervened. No one rebuked him for speaking out of turn, and Luke didn’t either. Firstly, because it wasn’t a stupid comment, and secondly, because he was still on probation, and picking a fight with the Hero’s squire was a good way of losing the little trust he had accumulated.

Fortunately, he enjoyed a degree of confidence with the Grand Marshal, and so he had been permitted to participate in the planning session.

Seeing that the man with the power to decide was keeping quiet, Luke decided to go all in. The past few days showed that the revolution was genuine in its aims. People really were treated better. That was more convincing than the cold calculus of power.

He couldn’t afford to remain on the sidelines, not when he still wasn’t trusted by much of the leadership. He needed to do something big, and this was the one occasion he had.

“I volunteer to lead a mission to force the General away from his fortified position. As far as I know, he isn’t aware of my new loyalties and should allow my men to get inside the camp.”

Silence followed.

It was a dangerous proposition. Very dangerous. Enough so to be suspicious.

He was a recently turned enemy, after all. What said he didn’t just go back to his old commanding officer?

But before anyone could raise legitimate concerns, the only man he needed to convince intervened. “Very well. You’ll have all the support you need, and we’ll also plan an escape route for your people.”

That sealed the deal. No one else dared object now that the Grand Marshal had given his approval.

“I’ll join him.” A new voice surprised him. Luke turned slowly because he knew very well who it belonged to.

And there he was. The man who had come very, very close to killing him and who had obliterated a good chunk of his forces. General Gareth Doomspear stared right into Luke’s eyes. Not with anger or disgust as he was used to by many nobles but with enough challenge to be unmistakable. If he refused the offer, he’d show himself as a potential risk. If he accepted, he’d be close to a man capable of killing him at any moment.

A smile stretched Luke’s lips, and he inclined his head in assent.

Extremely powerful walking artillery acquired. Now, he just needed to convince the quartermasters to give him enough food for seventy men and a mage to enchant a lullaby-bell for him.

Chapter 67 - Preys and Predators - Luke Smith 3

Since the advent of modern militarized magical doctrine, most commanders discounted the possibility of sneak attacks on large camps, as they would inevitably shatter on the wards set up by the Mage Corps. There was some value in attacking smaller groups that couldn’t sustain protections for long, as the Revolution had demonstrated time and again, but for entire armies, it was considered a folly.

Luke was well aware that General Locke would be even more paranoid than usual. The man had been given much more than a black eye. It wouldn’t be wrong to describe his defeat as the loss of a limb.

The entirety of Treon’s cavalry was gone, along with a third of the infantry and, according to the latest reports, a good chunk of the mages were suffering from the side effects of overusing their mana to cover the retreat.

All of this was a perfect recipe for disaster, and the General knew it.

Which meant he would be very paranoid and unlikely to welcome anything but good news. It was lucky, then, that it was good news Luke wanted to bring him.

Around twenty of his best men were marching through the drying pasture alongside him. He would have liked to bring more, but that would have been suspicious. After all, they had fought against the Hero for a long time before the reinforcements arrived, and no matter how talented he might be as a commander, he couldn’t get out of that without losing most of his force.

Seeing the hill the General had chosen in the far distance, Luke took a deep breath and prepared to go through the performance of his life.

“Getting cold feet?” A low voice asked from behind.

“If he learns what we are doing, court-martial will be the furthest prospect. He’ll make a spectacle out of us.” Luke replied.

“I’m not talking about the General. As far as I know, your acting skills should be more than enough for that.” The man who had almost killed him replied.

Luke snorted. Yes, there was the little problem that he had chosen to dispense of the obvious checks and wariness the camp’s guards would hold through a pretty dangerous scheme.

In his pocket, the little enchanted bell burned. He hadn’t expected Archmage Franklin to be in the camp, much less to volunteer to work on his project. He hadn’t even known she had defected. But that just went to show how unstoppable the Revolution was. An Ascended, two Champions, and who knew how many other powerhouses would be enough to set fire to half the known world.

With a deep breath, Luke put those considerations aside and took the bell out. A look around told him his men were ready. [Resurrection] had seen their wounds healed, but for this operation to succeed, they needed to sell that they had been running ever since the battle. Thus, everyone had cut themselves up, bleeding freely on their clothes.

Now, for the hard part.

*Ring* *Ring*

The little bell rang surprisingly loud. It was a magical sound, which slithered and stretched unnaturally, reaching for the creature they were told should be somewhere below their feet.

As promised, it only took a minute before the earth started to shake.

This far west, the swampy ground had been reclaimed through the centuries and turned into green pasture. That had sent the monsters most dependent on the habitat fleeing east, where the numerous ponds and underground rivers could fulfill their needs.

However, the oldest and most powerful denizens cared little for the change. Fourth tier creatures that could survive without ever reaching the surface, living in dank caverns and deep tunnels, could have been alive before Treon was ever settled and not have noticed the changes on the surface.

The little enchanted bell was an intelligent way of getting only one of those creatures’ attention. Even Luke wouldn’t have dared go through with his plan if Archmage Franklin hadn’t reassured him that it would only be noticeable to their chosen target.

The ground beneath Luke's feet trembled violently, the earth groaning as it was forced to yield to the immense power approaching from below. His heart pounded in his chest, and he took a deep breath to steady his nerves. The beast they had settled on was far more than a simple distraction; it was a force of nature. Calling upon a Greater Salamander was a considerable risk, and he couldn’t rightly promise to his men they would come out of this alive.

They had all accepted without hesitation.

Luke would have to do something for his men if they got through this operation. Maybe buy a round of drinks, once he got his first salary.

Elara will reverse-haunt me if I die on this stupid plan.

Without further warning, the surface erupted, dirt and grass flying into the air as a monstrous shape broke through.

It was a terrifying sight, twenty feet long and weighing over ten tons, its massive form rippling with muscle and raw power. The creature's skin was a mottled blue-green, glistening with moisture, and thin glowing lines ran across its back, converging on seemingly blind eyes. Luke knew well that it could track a mana signature for miles if it decided to. It was just that deep underground there was no need to see light.

The salamander roared, the sound of a landslide crashing down, and the air around it began to hum as its presence unfurled. As it emerged fully from the hole, it took a moment to orient itself, then began to follow the sound of the bell, drawn by the enchantment. Luke stopped feeding it mana; its job was done.

"Run! Now!" He shouted to his men, who were already beginning to flee toward the distant hill where Treon's army was camped. Despite having already expected it, the sight of the gigantic beast had sent a wave of real panic through them, but they managed to keep their formation, running as fast as they could.

Being all Journeymen, their pace was fast enough that a creature used to grabbing its meals with earth magic rather than chasing them down wouldn’t catch up—as long as they didn’t get hit by a spell.

Luke took up the rear, his eyes never leaving the monstrous creature. He swung his sword and sent a series of air slashes toward the salamander, hoping to slow it down. The beast shrugged off the attacks as if they were nothing more than a mild annoyance, but it momentarily slowed it, allowing the men to gain some precious distance.

It didn’t last long. The ground began to shake again as the salamander advanced, and Luke found himself narrowly avoiding several sudden holes that appeared in his path. Each time, he had to leap aside or alter his course to avoid being swallowed by the earth. The creature's control over the elements was shown in every step it took, the very landscape bending to its will.

At least it’s mostly focused on me. As long as I can keep it from attacking the others, I should be good. Its raw power is greater than mine, but I’m much more versatile.

The only other man in range was Gareth Doomspear, the revolutionary general sent by the Grand Marshal to keep an eye on things. Rather than helping—and Luke had little doubt that he could help since he personally had to deflect lightning bolts powerful enough to cripple the salamander during their duel—he remained hidden, watching the chaos unfold.

Luke hadn’t expected any help, as they agreed the man would keep his disguise until the very last moment. Still, he was clearly enjoying the spectacle, taking pleasure in seeing Luke so distressed and on the edge of disaster. It wasn’t exactly malicious. More schadenfreude, really. It just wasn’t helpful at the moment.

Despite the danger, Luke pressed on, occasionally sending a new wind blade to force the salamander back when it got too close. He couldn’t really harm it, especially since every time he scored a hit on a softer spot, it immediately regenerated, but it didn’t seem to enjoy pain, likely not having experienced such a sensation in a long time.

The hill loomed closer, and he saw activity picking up as the scouts noticed the approaching group and the giant monster chasing them. He silently prayed that they would hold their fire until he and his men were clear.

This was the second most dangerous part of the plan. If someone behind the artillery got too scared, they could also be blasted into smithereens, and then Doomspear would have to break cover to defend them, making the whole operation useless.

Luckily, the commander seemed to have nerves of steel because while the cannons were readied in record time, no one shot until Luke and his men reached the bottom of the hill.

“Who goes there?!” A loud voice called, and while he would have liked to snort, Luke kept his voice authoritative “Captain Luke Smith of the advanced forces! Let us in!” It took a long second, in which everyone held their breath. Then, another voice rumbled for them to be allowed behind the wards, and a gap was formed, which the fleeing soldiers rushed through.

Several cannon rounds were then fired at the salamander, their thunderous reports echoing across the landscape. The beast tanked the hits with surprising ease, absorbing the impacts with a bellow of confusion rather than pain.

In response to the unexpected attack, the salamander reared back, roaring, and launched a series of mud balls up the hill. Each broke apart against the shimmering wards that protected the camp but significantly shook them. The force of the impacts sent shockwaves through the air, and the defenders scrambled to reinforce their barriers.

The camp was buzzing like an anthill under attack by now, and Luke spied what had to be the few remaining mages with enough mana to be useful to prepare a response. They certainly hadn’t been expecting to have to cast again so soon after the Battle of the Swamp.

A full-on fight erupted, with the soldiers of Treon's army rallying to repel the monstrous invader. Luke and his men, having reached the safety of the hill, were allowed through and quickly reached the backlines, where a familiar man greeted them.

“I have to thank you, Captain Vokoss. I don’t know what I would have done if they didn’t let us in.” Luke exhaled, genuinely tired from the chase.

“Oh, don’t worry, Captain Smith. The General is in such a bad mood that your turning up alive might shield me from excessive scrutiny. He’s been trying to find a culprit for how poorly the battle went.” The nobleman replied almost cheerfully.

That was when the salamander smashed against the ward with the force of a tidal wave, cracking the protections. Spells started to fly at it, but Luke stopped caring. They were in.

Chapter 68 - Painted Faces - Luke Smith 4

A single monster, however powerful it might be, was not a significant challenge for an army—as long as it wasn’t a dragon or something ridiculous like that.

The great salamander had to be very old, and Luke could personally attest to its might, having been the recipient of several of its attacks, which left him conflicted as he watched it exhale its last breaths. He liked to think of himself as a decent fighter, but he hadn’t been able to do more than annoy it while the royal mages had defeated it in little more than two minutes.

Of course, they had the benefit of spamming their spells freely from behind a ward, which would have made his life much easier, but their ability to act together as one, even so diminished, was still noteworthy. It just highlighted how ridiculous the Grand Marshal was, to no-sell their efforts like that.

Eventually, the beast passed on, and Luke exhaled a breath of relief. He hadn’t doubted it would happen, but some trepidation hadn’t left him until the very last moment.

Now, it was time to play the second act.

“I have to admit, though, that if the undead repelling wards hadn’t let you through, I’d have struck you down as a damn lich, Smith. I saw you fight against a Master.” The nobleman beside him commented.

Luke snorted. He hadn’t been sure of it himself for a while.

Captain Vokoss was technically his equal in rank, but no one believed that. Noble-born and genuinely talented, he had only avoided promotion to General because Treon already had Locke, and he wouldn’t accept a secondary posting. Everyone knew he was a shoo-in for the position once it became open, and they treated him accordingly.

Much as Luke might have liked to complain, he knew Vokoss deserved his rank. He did not have the explosive power of a Master like Locke—though rumors speculated he was working hard to get there—nor the battlefield acumen that Luke himself had, but he was a fine tactician and dangerous swordsman. The fact that the only victory in the campaign—Woodsman’s Town’s gamble—belonged to him only increased his standing.

Luckily, Vokoss didn’t feel threatened by Luke, considering him an asset rather than a rival. This perception of his had been carefully cultivated and would now be tested to its limits.

“Captain, I have been told repeatedly that I have the luck of a devil. I don’t know if the Light is watching over me, but I can assure you, I’m no undead.” The reply earned a smirk from the nobleman, who looked around at the motley crew Luke had brought along.

They made for a sorry sight. All dirtied up from the run across the plains, with bloody gashes and tears that badly needed to be looked over before they could become infected, no one would suspect them of being anything but the wounded remnants of a defeated Corp.

The illusion held, and Vokoss looked away and back toward the salamander. “How did you come across that thing? I thought we had gotten rid of them all during the reclamation of the swamp.”

At least he didn’t ask me specifically how I survived the battle. It’s a bit of a taboo since I obviously must have sacrificed others in my company to do so, but since he wouldn’t hesitate to do the same thing, and other Captains actually did that to get away, he won’t question me further. For now.

Luke awkwardly chuckled, selling the image of a sheepish commander. “A persistent group of rebels was chasing us down, and I thought that if I needed to die, I’d at least bring them with me and started sending air slashes everywhere. One hit a barren patch of land, which must have been where it was hiding.” Unsaid went that rather than fight the two enemies at once, the rebels had left them to their fate, and Luke had desperately led his men to the main camp to get help.

A captain like him would have found that embarrassing to admit—they were supposed to stand their ground!—and so Vokoss merely nodded with a slight smile of amusement, probably filing the weakness away for a later time.

I’ll take his mockery if it lets me in and to the warding scheme. I just need to destroy it beyond repair, and they’ll be forced to abandon the hill. Staying here would mean certain death, and Locke is not stupid enough to think he can rebuild them after having spent days, if not weeks, setting them up.

A wave of Vokoss’ hand saw that his adjutant detached from his side and walked over to the dirty, tired men, gesturing for them to follow along. They went with only a look at Luke, who smiled placidly, as if that didn’t leave him alone in the middle of what now was an enemy camp.

With them also went Doomspear, still acting as a common soldier. Luke didn’t know for sure, but he suspected the man had a secondary mission to accomplish. He just hoped he’d show some restraint. If the whole thing went tits up because of his ego, Luke would be very cross.

He watched his men shuffle off, relief and concern warring in his chest. They had successfully infiltrated the camp, but now the real challenge began. Vokoss tilted his head, motioning for Luke to follow him. "Come along, Smith. The General will want to hear what you have to say. Though I must admit, your penchant for theatrics is quite amusing.”

"Thank you, Captain," Luke replied, maintaining his calm facade. The last thing he needed was to let Vokoss see any sign of nervousness, especially if he was looking for people to blame. They were both old hands at the game of politics, though they played in different fields. Appearing worried now would be an alarm bell.

They made their way through the camp, weaving between tents and the occasional solid structure. The camp was a bustling hive of activity, with soldiers and the occasional mage moving with purpose.

Even a couple of days after the battle, the air was thick with the scent of sweat, dirt, and the metallic tang of blood. Luke observed his surroundings closely, noting that while most noble commanders still expressed superiority, they were mixed with genuine worry. The recent defeat had shaken their confidence, and it showed in their tense, hurried movements.

Finally, they reached the General's tent. It was a large construction of wood and rich fabric, standing out amidst the more utilitarian structures surrounding it. Locke was practical, but not showing off his wealth would be seen as a sign of weakness, even here. Such were the trappings of nobility.

Vokoss held the flap open for Luke, who stepped inside, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the dim interior. The General was seated at a large table, surrounded by his adjutants. Maps and documents were strewn across the surface, and the air smelled of ink and parchment. The man looked up as they entered, his gimlet eye fixing on Luke with curiosity and suspicion.

"Ah, Smith," Locke said, his voice measured. “I don’t believe I’ll need to listen to the report of who caused the commotion, will I?”

Luke bowed his head respectfully. "Sir, I did what I could to return with valuable information. The salamander was an unfortunate encounter.”

"Unfortunate indeed," the General replied, his tone neutral. "Take a seat, Smith. We have much to discuss.”

Luke sat down, back straight and mind racing. He hadn’t intended to waste too much time playing games, but he now that he had the chance to influence the General's strategy, he’d try to plant the seeds of overconfidence and complacency.

Of course, he had to keep in mind that once the ruse was revealed and his status as a traitor was out, they wouldn’t trust a single word from him. But he could use that to his advantage, too.

The adjutants eyed him with the usual mix of disdain and curiosity. They were all noble-born, and their arrogance was evident in their postures and expressions. Yet, beneath their superior airs, Luke could see the flickers of genuine concern. The revolutionary army had proven to be a more formidable opponent than anticipated and these people weren’t so foolish as to ignore the writing on the wall.

Locke leaned back, dark eyes scrutinizing Luke’s face. He had fine, regal features, with hair that was just starting to go silver and a neatly cropped beard. His presence was unmistakably that of a Master, and Luke knew personally how dangerous he could be if sufficiently riled up. It was lucky that it took a lot for that to happen.

"Give us your report," The general commanded.

"Yes, sir," Luke began. "The revolutionary army is better trained and equipped than we initially believed. Their tactics are coordinated, and their soldiers are disciplined. I initially believed this to only be possible for the forward squads they sent out as reckon, but I was proven wrong.” Admitting to a fault among a gathering of nobles was tantamount to committing suicide, but it would also lend credence to his words. “However, I noticed something during the battle. Leonard Weiss kept away from the elites we fielded and only directly intervened toward the end. He’s obviously powerful and capable, but this could have been the end of the Southern campaign if he had been able to beat us decisively. That he didn’t makes me think he may not be as formidable as we feared.”

A murmur ran through the tent, the adjutants exchanging glances. Luke knew this was a dangerous lie, but stroking their egos and making them less careful was necessary. It also had the benefit of forcing them to focus on the one man who couldn’t be beaten, once they realized his betrayal.

"Interesting," Locke mused, his eyes narrowing. "Are you suggesting that Weiss is overestimated?”

"Possibly, sir," Luke replied cautiously. “He’s undoubtedly powerful, but I believe we spent too much time focusing on him rather than the commanders he has brought to his side. If we were to eliminate them surgically, we might do more damage than by simply treating the rebels as a mass of peasants hiding behind Weiss. It’s worth considering in our future engagements.”

Locke leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled. "Very well. I will keep this in mind. For the moment, I have already decided that any rash action could see us lose the strength we have retained unnecessarily. We will stay here as we rebuild our stocks. I will face some blowback for this, but that’s my business. Dismissed.”

And that’s the reason why we can’t just leave him be. Locke is a competent commander. He’s risking a lot, especially since he didn’t even reference the order I know he got from Luster-Treon, which means he’s hiding it from everyone. That’s some balls.

Luke rose and bowed, leaving the tent without letting his emotions show.

Vokoss’ adjutant waited for him outside and tilted his head in acknowledgment, barely giving him face, before walking away, expecting to be followed despite being a whole rank lower in power and hierarchy. Luke held his tongue, more than used to such treatment, and caught up as they walked to the infirmary where his men were being tended to.

The scent of antiseptic and the sounds of groans and murmured conversations hit him as he entered. As he had ordered, the men had made a spectacle of their injuries, insisting they required the full attention of everyone on staff.

Oh Light, Doomspear isn’t here. Why the fuck isn’t he here? I knew he had another mission. I just knew it. Light, don’t let him fuck up my hard work. I would be so mad if I had to run away from here without destroying the wards. That prick.

"Captain Smith," a medic called, drawing his attention. "Your men will be fine. They're strong and weathered the battle better than a lot of others. They’ll be fine with a couple of days of rest.”

"Thank you," Luke replied, offering a tired smile. “Don’t let them scare you and order them around as much as you like.”

Then, seeing that the still-unnamed adjutant had left and no one else seemed to want to bother him, Luke slipped away from the tent and towards the largest concentration of mana.

It was time to get to work.

Chapter 69 - The Executor - Gareth 1

Gareth was well aware of how Treon operated. Hetnia might be a backward duchy with only a handful of real strongholds, but his original home province of Nevielle was not so poor. Places like Treon were a dime in a dozen, and while they didn’t benefit from the concentration of power that the only city in the south did, they had plenty of resources to pull from.

The Battle of the Swamp, as it was being called, had shown that while Treon’s soldiers weren’t pushovers, they didn’t meet the standards of Haylich’s better corps. This should have been good news, but it only made Gareth more suspicious. How was it possible that this was all Treon had to offer? It wasn’t.

The Air Force is by far the most dangerous opponent, but they are stuck behind the walls to protect the Count. We might be in a different situation if he had been smart enough to send them to interfere instead. But it shouldn’t be the only elite available to them.

Treon had a Magic Tower known for its talented water mages, who had not stepped on the battlefield as far as he could tell. Yes, the General had a couple of mage corps available to him, as seen toward the end of the battle, but they were the classic, run-of-the-mill Journeymen casters. Nothing to write home about.

And so, Gareth skulked around the enemy camp, wearing one of their uniforms and blending in with little trouble. He was an old hand at looking busy enough not to be bothered. His days as a squire had been spent chiefly polishing armors and avoiding the castle’s master-at-arms, and the first thing he learned was that to look too busy was to bring scrutiny, as much as to look too carefree.

Since he still had his other mission, Gareth didn’t wander far. He kept close enough to Smith to feel his aura at the edge of his senses while he looked around surreptitiously.

Passing by another busy soldier, Gareth made sure to look commiserative and get behind him. Across all armies, it was universal that those in the middle of the ranks thought they could do a much better job than the generals but were often relegated to minor tasks. Thus, they bonded with fellow officers who thought they deserved better. This allowed him to move through the deeper parts of the camp without scrutiny.

He walked with practiced ease, blending seamlessly into the bustling activity. His keen eyes darted around, taking in the details, searching for any hint of a secret weapon or powerhouse they might be hiding. Frustration gnawed at him as he found nothing but the expected chaos. He was so sure that there had to be something more to this army that he couldn’t just walk away without finding it, but so far, it eluded him.

Eventually, his wandering brought him close to the heart of the camp, where a cadre of mages was meticulously working on the warding scheme. The area was a hive of activity, with casters busy carving runes, resetting wards after the unexpected fight, and enhancing their defenses even further, turning the hill into a veritable fortress. Gareth felt the itch to call upon his lightning and be done with the whole thing, but his hunch that something more was going on required patience, so he kept looking.

A mage, clearly harried and overworked, mistook him for a common soldier. "You there! Help me with this," he barked, pointing to a heavy stone inscribed with complex runes.

Annoyed but careful not to show it, Gareth stepped forward without hesitation, adopting the demeanor of a dutiful soldier. "Yes, sir," he replied, lifting the stone with apparent effort. He knew better than to let his strength and knowledge show, but as he held the stone, he recognized the explosive runes being carved into its surface. The mage didn't offer any explanation, and Gareth kept his mouth shut, focusing on maintaining his cover. He sorely wanted to drop the bomb, but that risked setting the runes off, and even he wasn’t sure he could survive it at point-blank range.

The task would have been almost impossible for an ordinary soldier, and Gareth made sure to fake shakes in his arms by the time the mage was satisfied. He set the stone down carefully, ensuring it didn't jar and activate the runes prematurely. Technically, it couldn’t happen without a sudden rise in mana levels, but he wasn’t about to bet the idiot had done his job well.

With that done, he got the hell away from the insane mage who would let an ignorant soldier handle such a powerful explosive.

Is that what I was looking for? Reports certainly hint at a prevalence of these things wherever the loyalists went through, but they haven’t been a problem so far because of our divination division… But if we didn’t have that, we would have suffered heavily in every town, with much smaller ones at that. If they are preparing stones this large… It could be enough to blow up a chunk of the army. Especially if they placed them on the path of a charge. They’d be able to repay us for the loss of the cavalry.

As he straightened up, he caught sight of Smith skulking around the perimeter of the mage area, clearly on his own mission.

Their eyes met briefly, a silent understanding passing between them. Neither acknowledged the other openly, as they knew better than to draw attention to their presence. With a slight nod, they moved away, continuing their separate tasks.

He’s an annoying, arrogant bastard, but he’s good at what he does and seems genuine enough in his loyalty. I’ll give him a chance to see if he can pull this off.

Gareth resumed his stealthy reconnaissance, eavesdropping on nearby mages. He overheard several worried conversations about how easily the Hero had dispelled their magic and how the last-minute decision to engage in battle had meant the corps couldn’t bring the best to the table, which cost them severely with the destruction of the mounted force. The mages spoke in hushed tones, voicing their frustrations and fears behind spells meant to keep their privacy, which were nothing before Gareth’s new senses.

"He's too powerful. Our magic didn't even give him pause. You saw how completely he dispelled [Devastation].” A tall, robed man complained, his voice tinged with desperation.

"If the General doesn't retreat to Treon, we're finished," another responded. "We can bolster the defenses there, make a real stand. If we stay here, we’ll just get boxed in and whittled down. No matter how many more layers of wards we add, we won’t be able to last forever away from a proper supply of mana stones. Most of the vein we found beneath the hill is just too difficult to reach to sustain all the additional protections they made us cast.”

Ah, jackpot. That’s why they are staying here. They found a fucking vein of mana crystals and are hoping it will last long enough for Pollus to get here. Idiots. At least these mages seem to realize the danger they are in, but if the brass is set, there is nothing they can do to change their minds.

It was a pretty good plan, if one believed Leonard Weiss to be an average Champion with a moderately trained army behind him. Especially since it had the benefit of looking outwardly foolish, and thus would let enemies make easy mistakes. It also explained why his intuition was acting up while the diviners could find nothing. The mana vein had to be pretty deep down, and their main focus had been mapping movements between the camp and Treon rather than below the hill.

Retreating to the city and reinforcing its defenses might not be a perfect strategy, and it would certainly meet censure among the noble circles, but it would have given them a real chance of lasting long enough.

Now, it was just a matter of how long it took for the Revolution to dislodge them from here.

A couple dozen men might not be much compared to an army made of thousands, but the sheer level of disruption they could cause if they put some effort into it was a sight to behold.

People rushed everywhere around the camp, trying to plug gaps in the reconnaissance rounds or check on shipments that were reported as tampered with.

It was apparent enough that something out of the ordinary was going on, and Gareth gave it an hour or two before the General started getting suspicious and imposed order. Still, he and his conspirators were free to move unnoticed for the moment.

He hurriedly returned to the mage area, only to be pulled into the shadows of a seemingly empty tent.

"Everything is ready," Smith whispered urgently. "We just need a spark to light the flame. I replaced several of the exploding runes meant for the outside with fakes. The real ones are here in the back, but I haven't managed to get the mages guarding the ward to leave so I can get them in.”

Gareth's mind whirred as he assessed the situation. His eyes flicked around the area, and he noticed the same rude mage he had helped earlier with the explosive stone. An idea formed in his mind.

"I'll handle it," he said, "Wait for my signal.”

He walked over to the mage, adopting a contrite expression. "Excuse me, sir," he said respectfully. "A Captain from the artillery corps told me that something was wrong with the stones and that they need a mage to get a look at them.”

The man looked annoyed and initially waved him off. "I'm busy, soldier. Find someone else.”

Gareth feigned nervousness, adding in a lower voice, "The Captain mentioned that the General is supposed to come for an inspection soon.”

The mage's eyes widened slightly, and his demeanor changed immediately. "Why didn't you say that earlier?" he snapped, grabbing his fellow. "Come on, we need to check this out before the General arrives. We’ll be the ones in trouble if there is something wrong with those damn stones.”

As the two mages hurried off, cursing Gareth for not informing them sooner, he turned and made to leave, casting a glance back to see if anyone else was watching. The lone remaining mage guarding the warding scheme eyed him suspiciously, but Gareth kept his composure, walking away slowly.

From behind the man, Smith crept in silently and, with a swift, practiced motion, bashed the guard on the head, a swirling breeze circling the staff he had used. The mage crumpled to the ground, unconscious.

“No refinement.” Gareth sniffed.

“It did the job,” Smith replied, rolling his eyes.

The two men wasted no more time. They moved quickly, placing the explosive stones among the warding schemes, making sure they were well-hidden but positioned for maximum damage.

With their task complete, they hurried away, blending back into the camp. They gathered their men, who were already on edge and ready to move, and took them to the opposite side, where fewer people were likely to stumble upon the odd group of wounded soldiers. Gareth pulled out his communication stone. Coordinating the escape without it would have been much more challenging, and he thanked the Light every day that Archmage Franklin had joined them.

"Requesting pick-up," he whispered into the stone.

Several shadows materialized around them a minute later, causing the men to startle. The spirits didn’t bother waiting for them to recover, and Gareth could admit to having some fun watching the men so uncomfortable. Darkness enveloped Gareth, Smith, and their men, ready to whisk them away.

Just as they vanished, a series of explosions rocked the camp. The sound was almost deafening, and a second later, a much louder one followed. Flames burst into the sky into a cascading, catastrophic ward backlash, which incinerated everything around the camp.

By then, the rebels were far away, their job done.

Chapter 70 - Dancing Shadows - Amelia 9

The shadeling didn’t particularly care for the earthly form it took. Still, if prompted to express an opinion, it would prefer to remain in a humanoid shape rather than stretching uncomfortably over one of the warriors like it was currently doing.

However, the Mistress had given an order, which meant it complied without a fuss. Fulfilling its contract was much more important than momentary pleasure.

And so, it acted as armor, protecting the squishy human within from blows that should have ended his life and allowing him to retreat toward the temporary stronghold, where it finally was able to detach itself.

As always, it didn’t bother to wait for the human to finish groaning and grumbling; instead, it took to the shadows to join its mistress.

“Good job; that should be enough for them to wonder if we have managed to keep a base hidden from their sweeps,” Amelia murmured, and the spirit listened, content to have fulfilled its part.

With a glance of amusement, she allowed a spark of her terrible power to coalesce into existence, and the shadeling greedily jumped at it, swallowing in one bite and humming with pleasure. It even went as far as to let a comical belch, as if overstuffed, in an act it had observed from the local humans.

Amelia shook her head at the antics but didn’t reproach it. This campaign was much more intensive than the last she took part in, and as a consequence of the revolution’s lack of special forces, she had to keep a lot more spirits summoned than she ever had before. That some of them started exhibiting human-like behavior was a surprise, having always known them to be detached creatures, but it wasn’t anything to worry about.

“Is it done, then?” An aged voice asked from the sofa close to the fireplace.

Amelia inclined her head, “It is. I suspect Count Pollus will not remain in our company much longer even with this, but he should leave a sizable company behind to handle these elusive forest warriors.”

It wasn’t actually one of her ideas, but Amelia was pragmatic enough to go through with it even while privately kicking herself for not thinking about it.

The loss of so many of her cultivated elites had been a worse blow than she had initially calculated. The ease with which she had recruited them had led her to believe she could replenish the ranks quickly, and while she had done it after taking more territory, the explosive expansion she had hoped for hadn’t materialized.

It just went to show, once again, why she shouldn’t be the one to make the big decisions. Amelia considered herself powerful enough to lead a movement, and her esoteric abilities made countering her almost impossible, but she lacked Leonard's je ne sais quoi. She simply had trouble considering emotions that weren’t greed, anger and pride. Those she could manipulate and use to fan the flames, but everything else was outside her competence.

Which was why she had gradually allowed one of the elders she had picked up into her confidence. Not because she genuinely trusted him, but because Oz could bring to the table something she lacked. That he had also shown a knack for organizing guerrilla tactics and seemed entirely too pleased with himself whenever they successfully fooled the Ducal Army made her genuinely consider leaving him in overall command once she left.

A time that’s coming closer and closer. The Count called for a meeting in an hour to discuss something with the brass, and I’ll give my right buttock if it isn’t to announce he’s leaving. We kept him here much longer than I thought possible, but by now, he must know.

“That means we need to prepare a sendoff for him. Wouldn’t want the good Count to have to march through the Darkwood without thinking of us,” Oz replied, a slightly deranged grin stretching his features. The old man enjoyed killing loyalists perhaps a bit too much.

The Nightstalker didn’t feel boredom. That was a mortal concept it had trouble wrapping its mind around, which was saying something, considering it lived firmly between two dimensions.

But spending the last month clinging to a human had pushed it much closer than it had ever experienced before.

The realm of shadows wasn’t very eventful, but at least if something was threatening or annoying, it could simply shred it with its claws.

Jeremiah D’Ansan didn’t have that privilege. He spent countless hours bowing and scraping to other humans he obviously despised just so he could participate in their meetings and, one day, be elevated to the same level.

Ambition, the nightstalker could respect, but ambition without power and dedication was just daydreaming, and that was something that disgusted it.

Still, its mistress had given an order, and it obeyed faithfully, savoring the day it could enjoy its reward.

Finally, the human stood up from his desk, leaving behind most of the innumerable pieces of paper he always scribbled on and left for the meeting it was interested in.

“Sir, I have your correspondence from the Duke here,” Jeremiah called to an old man, who the shadow knew to be the one actually in charge.

“Has he started making sense, or is he still blabbering about sending his son to get experience? If I have to pen another polite rebuttal again, I’ll start chopping heads!” The Count grumbled but grabbed the sheaf of paper and read as he walked through the camp.

“More nonsense. The Whiteguard has refused my request to send auxiliary Experts to deal with Light overdoses, and yet he still finds time to insist I need to take his son when I face the Hero.”

Jeremiah nodded just lightly enough to be mistaken for an involuntary movement but neatly enough that the Count would take it as agreement. The nightstalker didn’t like the human, but it could appreciate his subtlety.

“Well, nothing to do about that. I’ll just send another refusal wrapped in a different offer.” And with that, they were off to the meeting.

The large tent it took place in was richly furnished, as befitting a peer of the realm. Luxurious upholstery, carved crystal goblets, and even a tapestry depicting the duchy of Hetnia all marked the area as off-limits to the average soldier. Only nobles and their adjutants could enter, and the spirit could even feel a subtle ward meant to repel anyone not meeting specific criteria from loitering around.

It did not affect it since it was currently in a different dimension, but it displayed just how much importance these humans gave to the concept of noble blood.

The Count took his seat silently, sweeping his cold gaze over his men. To his left sat Baron Langley, whose mustache was the only thing that looked the same as before the campaign—stress lines ran over his face, and his eyes were almost sunken. On his right, Baron Luxfeld, fat and sharp-eyed, looked equally concerned, for once not spewing his smoke everywhere. Jeremiah sat slightly apart, his expression carefully neutral. The shadow knew he had been delighted to gain a proper seat, but with it came a lot of responsibility.

The Count wasted no time. "Report," he demanded.

Baron Langley cleared his throat, visibly nervous. "Another attack hit our supply lines last night, High General. We lost significant provisions and a convoy of mana crystals. Our efforts to secure the routes have been futile because they always disappear before we can muster a response, and it’s not feasible to heavily guard all shipments unless we want the flow of material to slow.”

Pollus' eyes flared with anger. "How many times must I hear this? Our supply lines are our lifeblood. We are being made a mockery of by peasants and hedgewitches!”

Langley winced but continued, pulling at his mustache, "We're doing all we can, sir. The rebels are elusive, and their tactics are... highly effective. They simply know the forest better than we do.”

Pollus turned his fiery gaze to Baron Luxfeld. "And you? Any progress with the sweeps?”

The man in question shook his head, his expression grim. "Nothing, High General. It's as if they vanish into thin air. And we know they aren’t getting help from the orc tribes since they seem busy setting up a leadership contest. They have rebuffed every offer so far, but I’m confident they won’t pick the rebels’ side.”

That seemed enough for the Count to stem his anger, and he sat back with a huff.

“It remains to be seen whether the new leader will be as isolationist, but considering the losses they took during the Incursion, they should be hesitant to attack us.”

The Count's face darkened further, his fists clenching on the table. The tent was silent for a moment, and the only sound was wood cracking. The nobles exchanged nervous glances, sensing the mounting fury.

After a tense minute, Pollus spoke, his voice icy and controlled. "We cannot continue like this. Our position here is untenable, and we haven’t seen hide of Weiss. We must leave.”

The declaration hung in the air like a death knell. Baron Luxfeld's eyes widened in shock. "Leave, Your Grace? But what about the siege? The rebels might attack Volten—“

Pollus cut him off with a sharp gesture. “Weiss is not here!” He roared. “We have been tricked; it’s obvious now. The latest reports say the rebels are sweeping the southern towns to Treon! He must be there, acting just subtly enough to avoid notice. We must leave.” Then, taking a deep breath, he added, “But not entirely, of course. The reasons that led us here are not entirely foolish. Baron Luxfeld, you will remain with three corps to continue besieging the rebels. Use the heavy artillery to keep them pinned down. Make it seem like our entire force is still here for as long as possible.”

Luxfeld's protest died on his lips as he met the Count's unwavering gaze. "Yes, sir," he said reluctantly.

Pollus turned to Langley. "We need to move south immediately. Weiss is no doubt battering down Treon's gates as we speak. Locke is a decent commander, but he’s surrounded by idiots and lickspittles. He has no other option but to take refuge behind the wards and hope we’ll save him. We must march there as quickly as possible to relieve them, or we’ll lose the entirety of the south.”

Having kept quiet until the Count had worked through his anger, Jeremiah chose this moment to speak, his voice measured and calm. "Sir, if I may suggest, we should also consider a diversion. Something to mislead the rebels and buy us time. Their assaults on our supplies are successful because we can’t catch them, but if we stage a fake convoy and lead them into orc territory, they are likely to attack anyway. We could have the two fight against each other and nullify their advantage in the forest.”

Pollus nodded, a glint of approval in his eyes. "A good suggestion. Set it up quickly. I want us ready to move at dawn.” The nobles stood, the tension easing slightly but the urgency clear. As they filed out, the Nightstalker remained, blending deeper into the shadows, reading over the ambitious adjutant’s shoulders.

Amelia swirled the wine in her glass, observing how the light hit the dark liquid and exploded in myriad shades of red. Lantean vintages were always memorable, even if this one was a cheap vintage made for export.

“I suppose you’ll leave us too, then?” Oz asked, staring out of the castle’s window and toward the forest, where the enemy camp was buzzing with frenzy.

Subtle, they were not. The dark was not an inconvenience to the Mistress of Shadows.

“I need to rejoin the main army soon, yes. Taking Treon will require more…overt interference from the powerhouses, especially if we want to pacify the city before the Count arrives.”

The old man hummed, hand twitching occasionally because of a wound he had taken from a Scourge.

While not a Champion, finding a Master had been a surprise. One with a thirst for revenge against the Duke even more so. But Amelia should have known. Treating your people poorly, lying about it, and heaping even more suffering upon them could only lead to terrible outcomes. It was a lesson she herself was still learning, and was thankful that Leonard’s orders had prevented her from being too callous with the locals. She wouldn’t have found someone to take the reins for her otherwise.

“I just have to do one last thing before I go. I’ll wait until the Count has left, then prepare a little surprise for Baron Luxfeld.”

The shadows grinned. They didn’t feel mortal emotions, but they would undoubtedly enjoy taking their revenge for the long surveillance on the unsuspecting humans.

Of course, they’d take their time—nothing so unrefined as a frontal attack.

But seeing the fear envelop the enemy camp as people slowly started disappearing was oh-so-sweet.

Chapter 71 - Resolution - Leonard 28

There were times when subterfuge was genuinely the best weapon. Leonard could have smashed the wards around Locke’s camp by himself, but having gone through his newest Captain meant he solidified the man’s loyalty and got valuable intel.

He wouldn’t have learned of the plot to leave explosives around the hill for his army to stumble through—though admittedly, the divination corps would have likely found them sooner or later—and he certainly wouldn’t have come to know of the precious mana crystal vein hidden beneath the hill.

But it couldn’t solve every problem. Brute strength, at the end of the day, was needed to solidify gains and defeat stubborn enemies. Destroying the camp’s wards was a significant achievement, as it forced Locke to remove his army from the easily defensible position. But it also meant the Revolutionary Army had a short window of time to capitalize on that gain.

This was why he was currently riding ahead of the army, leading the mounted cavalry and some armored carriages to intercept the fleeing General. The infantry and mage corps were marching hard behind them, but it would take them a while longer to get there, and by that point, they risked being in sight of Treon.

And we can’t allow that to happen. I have set a few people to look out for a possible aerial intervention, but as long as the battle takes place between the hills, the Air Force won’t know about it. If we wait too long and they reach the open grassland, we risk getting pincered in.

The initial plan had been to wait for confirmation of Smith’s success to move ahead, but Leonard had seen through remote viewing that things were going well and had decided to mobilize the troops before the wards were down.

That decision was proving correct, as the divination division informed him that Locke had called for an immediate retreat the moment the explosions went off. Had he waited for the three hours it took for Smith to actually go through with it, they’d be hopelessly behind.

Instead, they were now close enough that his outriders had returned from the first skirmish with the loyalists.

“They were expecting something, sir, but not so soon, I think. We scared the shit out of them as we poured down the hill and disappeared before they could muster a real response.” The grizzled man said, bringing his horse to canter next to Leonard’s.

“Good, have someone keep harassing them, but from different sides. I don’t want them to know where to expect us.”

With his orders received, the man departed, saluting.

A strange sort of energy took over the forward group then. Everyone had been preparing for this battle for a long time, and the victory at the Battle of the Swamp had only made people more eager to fight.

With Locke's forces caught in a precarious position, the men's anticipation was almost palpable. The miles passed them by, guided by a powerful thirst for revenge and driven by the promise of a decisive victory. In one fell swoop, they’d be able to open the way to Treon and deprive Count Pollus of a significant number of men.

Leonard signaled a halt as they approached the tall hill marking their chosen ambush point. His thousand riders, a formidable force he had developed specifically for a situation like this, fanned out around the carriages, waiting for the command. Leonard urged his horse forward, climbing the hill's summit to survey the area below.

Most of Locke's army was in a narrow passage, hemmed in by steep hills on either side. It was a textbook example of a terrible position to be attacked in. The goat path restricted movement, and the constant attacks from the outriders significantly added to the already chaotic retreat.

A warning horn sounded then, and Leonard knew they had been spotted. Soldiers scrambled to form defensive positions; officers shouted orders, and a general panic took the fleeing army. Leonard’s lips curled into a determined smile. This was the moment he had been waiting for.

He raised his arm high, the signal to prepare for the charge. The riders behind him tensed, gripping their reins and weapons, ready to unleash their fury. Leonard's voice rang out, clear and commanding, "For the Revolution! Charge!”

A thunderous roar erupted from a thousand throats as the riders surged forward, pouring down the hill like an unstoppable avalanche. Leonard rode at their head, taking Dyeus out of its sheath. As they descended, he invoked his favorite buffing spell, [Halo of the Righteous], casting his sword skyward. A brilliant aura enveloped the riders, enhancing their strength and speed and turning them into an unstoppable force.

The enemy infantry, still organizing themselves, had barely managed to take position when the cavalry smashed into them. The impact was devastating. Augmented by Leonard’s spell, horses and riders tore through the front lines, breaking their formation brutally.

Leonard led the charge with a great bellow that struck terror into the enemy's hearts. His sword, a blur of lethal motion, cut down foes left and right.

Despite their training, the loyalist soldiers were overwhelmed by the sudden, ferocious onslaught. Many turned and fled, only to be cut down by the relentless cavalry. Those who stood their ground found themselves outmatched, their lines crumbling under the relentless assault.

Leonard personally cut down ten men, and his horse trampled another five. Dyeus dripped with red blood, and he left behind a trail of broken bodies.

By the time his horse slowed down, he was on the opposite hill, having successfully cut through the column. Urging the animal to turn around with his heels, Leonard took in the sight.

Locke’s army had been caught with its pants down. Less than a fourth had made it out of the corridor, and most of it was now forced to bunch up, worried about attacks coming from every side and without a good visual. Despite having a numerical advantage, the suppressing fire from the carriages above had prevented an organized response, halting the forward group from coming to the center’s aid.

A few commanders had managed to retain their positions and shouted angrily, urging the men to pull together, but it wasn’t enough.

Leonard’s mounted cavalry had split the army in two and was now turning around, preparing for a second charge.

Despite their initial retreat being orderly, Leonard's cavalry's sudden and brutal charge had thrown Treon’s soldiers into disarray. Commanders barked frantic orders, attempting to reform lines and create a semblance of defense, but panic had already taken root. Those who had endured a charge looked around in fear, knowing a cannon could fire upon them at any moment.

Leonard’s riders were regrouping, preparing for a second, decisive run. The loyalist soldiers, more prepared this time, had managed to form a loose defensive line, their spears bristling toward the hill even as a few mages tried to put up shields against the carriages. With his enhanced sight, he could see the determination in their eyes and the fear lurking beneath their steely gazes.

The moment came, and once again, the cavalry surged forward. Leonard led the charge, aiming to draw the worst of the response on himself.

This time, the loyalist lines buckled but did not immediately break. Spears thrust forward, horses reared, and for a moment, it seemed as if the loyalists might hold their ground.

Then, a war horn sounded from the opposite hill. Leonard grinned as he saw his advance force—the outriders he had sent ahead—descending upon the loyalists from the rear. These hardened warriors fell upon Locke's soldiers like a swarm of locusts, crushing the mages from behind and opening the way for Leonard’s cavalry to break through.

Locke's numerical superiority, with a little more than five thousand soldiers to Leonard’s one thousand, became a disadvantage as they couldn't bring their full force to bear in the confined space. The environmental factor meant Locke’s troops were almost helpless before the cavalry’s devastating charge, suffering heavy losses.

The front lines crumbled, and the loyalists were driven back, unable to hold against the combined assault from both sides, until the two groups of revolutionaries met in the middle once again.

Things were going very well. Better than Leonard had initially expected. He had underestimated just how deep of an impact the earlier defeat and the destruction of the wards must have had. These men were tired and afraid.

But he knew not to lower his guard. So far, he had encountered and killed a single Expert, which told him the loyalists still hadn’t brought their best to bear.

He scanned the melee, seeking out the elites that had to be hiding somewhere amidst the chaos.

From the front of the army, a significant presence unfurled and pressed down on the pass, seeking something. Leonard didn’t need more warnings and dismounted just in time to see a figure bounding toward him with deadly intent.

Dressed in full military regalia, General Locke advanced with a grim determination, a thin haze of shimmering vapor settling around his sword. The soldiers opened up to let him through, cheering at their General’s arrival even as Leonard gestured for the cannoneers to hold their fire for the moment.

It was the duel everyone had waited for in the last battle and was delayed by the catastrophic beginning. This time, there was no other way for the fight to end.

There were no words to exchange this time. No agreement to reach.

Leonard’s blade met Locke's with a deafening clash. The force of their impact sent shockwaves through the air, and the sheer power of their blows threw men aside. The spectacle caused most fights nearby to halt, though the mounted knights were quick to capitalize on it and move away from the infantry, having been trained precisely to take advantage of such moments.

General Locke was a skilled practitioner of the River Blade, a martial art that seamlessly blended water magic with refined swordsmanship. This could be seen in his strikes, which were fluid, almost hypnotic, and carried the force of a rushing torrent. Leonard countered with raw talent and the power his Light magic afforded him, infusing his every move with blinding speed and strength.

As the two duelists retreated from the first strike, still testing the strength necessary to win, Leonard’s senses told him that something was coming, and though he could have tanked the hit, he didn’t want to end things too soon. The longer he could keep the General busy, the longer his army had to arrive.

From the haze surrounding Locke, a figure emerged. It was similar to a water spirit but much more defined and definitely modeled after the man. The elemental clone took shape in the blink of an eye and then rushed forward, mimicking the last attack. Leonard dispatched it just as easily but was then beset by the real man on the other side.

The clone’s strikes were nearly as potent as the original’s, forcing Leonard to divide his focus and parry twice as many blows. The echo’s blade struck with the same fluid precision, making it difficult to predict where the next strike would come from.

Leonard grinned, more than happy to fight something new. Calling upon his immense reserves, he systematically obliterated the environment around them with wide slashes of holy power that burned the air and earth alike, creating arcs of pure Light that tore apart the ground and sent shockwaves through the battlefield.

Enemy soldiers standing a hundred feet away were hurtled back, forcing the General to up the ante to protect them. But every attack shook the man’s very bones, and it obviously cost him dearly to keep the echo going, as it was forcefully dispersed with every clash. Streams of water rose to meet the Light, creating a dazzling display of elemental power as the two forces clashed and vaporized into steam.

For several minutes, their duel raged on. The battle around them had turned into a stalemate, with mages halting the worst cannon barrages and the loyalist soldiers managing to create shield walls and leverage their firearms to force Leonard’s cavalry back, who were wary of the hails of bullets and only occasionally able to charge thanks to their buff. Temporarily unable to break through, they circled like predatory wolves, waiting for the right moment to strike again.

Leonard thus decided to change his plan. He had initially wanted to stall for long enough to allow his army to join, but the longer the duel dragged on, the greater the risk of losing momentum and the more Locke’s army had to reorganize. He decided it was time to up the ante.

With a roar, he channeled even more of his formidable power into his sword. The blade shone with an almost blinding light, and he brought it crashing down with a mighty swing. Locke immediately abandoned his companion spell, pulling the water around himself like a shield. The sheer power of the blow instantly shattered the water clone, the residual magic dissipating in a tremendous explosion of steam. A powerful gust of wind blew it away as Leonard swung again.

Locke barely had time to raise his blade in defense. The impact was cataclysmic, sending scores of men to the ground. Despite its significant enchantments, Locke's sword was immediately shattered by the Dyeus, and he, with it.

The battlefield fell silent, and the sound of clashing swords and battle cries was replaced by soldiers' heavy breathing and the moans of the wounded.

At that precise moment, a new horn echoed through the pass. The Revolutionary Army had arrived. It was over.

Chapter 72 - Leadership and Its Burdens - Leonard 29

“We’ve come to pledge our loyalty to your cause, Hero!” The hobgoblin warrior shouted, holding a fist over his heart.

It was the fourth such instance only this day. Small warbands of four or five emerged from the swamp or even the Darkwood. Intel characterized them as likely remnants of those who had lost their homes to the Incursion and decided to fight rather than flee.

Leonard had initially been surprised that it took so long for them to come out, but on second thought, he realized why. These were people who had deliberately chosen to stay away from civilization for months after the end of the war. They likely had a terrible image of the government and royal army, seeing as they didn’t join up even when things were most dire. It wasn’t a stretch they’d be cautious of the revolution too.

Standing tall in his official vest as the Grand Marshal of the Revolution, Leonard observed the hobgoblin warband before him. It was larger than the others, with twelve members.

Their leader, a stout, if short, figure with scars crisscrossing his face, had just finished his pledge of loyalty. Leonard nodded solemnly as he stepped forward to accept their allegiance.

“We welcome you to our cause,” he said, his voice carrying an enhanced weight that never failed to make people stand up and take notice. “Your bravery and determination in fighting against the Void give you honor among my ranks, and they will serve us well in the battles to come against the yoke of tyranny.”

For a moment, the hobgoblins seemed stunned that he knew about their past, as if a little deduction was beyond him, but they immediately exploded in cheers and nods of approval, clearly relieved to be accepted. Leonard then gestured to his officers to integrate the new arrivals, ensuring they were assessed, equipped and briefed. As he watched them blend into the ranks, he couldn’t help but mull over how much things had changed.

With the arrival of the Revolutionary Army at the Battle of the Goat Path and his defeat of General Locke, the local army had broken and fled, seeking refuge within the walls of Treon. Those who were not quick enough were run down and captured. After some convincing—which boiled down to being treated like actual human beings and offered a decent salary and training, which apparently had been lacking in Treon’s forces— many of these captured soldiers had been incorporated into Leonard’s growing force. The once formidable royalist army was now a fractured shadow of its former self.

Few people had managed to flee far enough to make it not worth it chasing them, and even if letting them go meant the city would know of their arrival, Leonard sincerely doubted they weren’t already on high alert after losing contact with the General.

With that decisive victory, the path to Treon had become clear, and Leonard’s army marched rapidly. Small villages along the way were taken with little resistance, and the locals often joined the revolutionary cause—awed at the gleaming armor and weapons the elite corps leading the charge wielded, or simply knowing better than to refuse the new power in the region— and swelled their ranks further.

After months of campaigning, Gerard developed a very efficient training regime for these recruits and churned out Apprentices on the verge of becoming Journeymen in little more than three weeks. It was an almost autonomous process, with seasoned veterans too old to wield their blades in combat enthusiastically taking charge while under Neer’s able eye.

The half-orc in question had taken to her role as General of the Security Forces like a fish to water and required almost no oversight, organizing newly conquered territories into peaceful and productive communities, using her experience following a noble around as guide, and her instincts where that failed. All in all, Leonard could honestly say he was satisfied with how things were going.

After the formalities with the latest warband, he retreated to his tent, accompanied by Oliver. The young man, ever diligent, helped him remove the stifling fabric of his official uniform—something his War Council had firmly insisted upon, pointing out that it was a historically understood effect that the more visible and recognizable the commander was, the higher the troops’ morale— the familiarity of the routine bringing a sense of normalcy amidst the chaos of war.

Oliver had also recently returned from a mission to capture the easternmost village on their route to Treon, which gave them the chance to debrief privately. Despite his time being much more in demand than ever before, Leonard still made sure to have some time set aside for one-on-ones with his squire. Not that the boy would remain so much longer, with how quickly he was racking up achievements, but for now, it would do.

Carefully removing the golden ornaments from the vest, the redhead began, “One thing I’ve noticed is that the locals are always surprised to see us. I expected the panic that follows—seeing forty mounted men ride hard toward you can send the toughest men into blind fear— but it seems they knew nothing about how much we have advanced. It’s like they’ve never imagined we could be here.”

Leonard nodded thoughtfully as he sat down, accepting a cup of water from Oliver. “The royalist propaganda has been thorough,” he replied. “They’ve painted a picture of invincibility around Locke and his forces. To the common folk who have only been told what monsters we are and how brave and valorous the nobles defending them are, the idea of us winning, let alone being this close, is unthinkable.”

He took a sip, the cool water soothing his parched throat. He had come to enjoy speaking publicly and knew how important it was to personally welcome the new arrivals to cement their loyalty, but taking for so long always made him thirsty, “It’s a tactic as old as war itself. Convince the people that their leaders are undefeatable, and you instill fear and compliance. But now, with Locke defeated and our forces pressing forward, that illusion is shattered.”

“So they never even considered the possibility of defeat. To them, the world probably ends beyond their village’s walls, and they only know what is brought to their ears by outsiders—it certainly was what happened with my family. And the merchant traffic has significantly diminished because of the Incursion first and now us.” Oliver said with a tone of realization.

Leonard smiled, nodding. After being summoned, it had been tough for him to realize just how slowly news traveled in this land. Communication stones were the privilege of the nobles or the wealthiest merchants, and even they couldn’t abuse them for frivolities. It was why he had pushed Jean to work on a better model, even if she had surprised him with how much she achieved in so little time. Progressively, he was achieving things he had once thought impossible, and he would drag Haylich into modernity, kicking and screaming if he had to.

“Exactly,” Leonard said, leaning back in his chair. “And now, seeing us here, they’re forced to face a new reality. It will take some time for them to understand we aren’t the monsters we are painted as, which is why I insisted on regular food shipments to the communities. Some might see it as a waste since we are running a campaign, but our accounts are well above water, and the supply flow isn’t in danger at the moment. We can afford to be generous with more perishable food and will reap great rewards for our generosity. True loyalty is worth so much more than fear-based acquiescence.”

It was the same concept that led him to resurrect so many of the enemy soldiers. It sounded counterintuitive to many, but it was an act often reserved only for the highest social classes—and even then sporadically. For a common soldier to be plucked back from oblivion meant much more than nebulous duty to a faceless noble.

Oliver seemed to follow his train of thought easily because he asked, brow furrowed. “Will this method of earning loyalty work with the recently defeated local army? I mean, we were pretty brutal in defeating them, especially since you killed Locke and didn’t resurrect him,”

Leonard paused, considering how to answer the question. Before he could speak, however, his attention was drawn to a shadow pooling deeper within the tent. He smiled, recognizing the familiar presence. He had sensed an increasing activity among the spirits lately but hadn’t expected her to return for a couple of days yet. Her little surprise must have gone quite well, then.

From the dark emerged Amelia, wearing a stunning black dress adorned with purple feathers, as ethereal and commanding as always.

“Leonard straddles the line between scaring people off and being too permissive,” she smoothly interjected, startling Oliver, who had yet to refine his senses enough. “His method of resurrecting the common soldiers while only sparing a limited few of the commanders demonstrates a limit to his mercy, solidifying his role as an invincible warrior.”

Leonard stood and gently embraced his friend, smiling in agreement. “Exactly. It’s about balance. By bringing back the common soldiers, I show them that I value their lives and that they are not just cannon fodder to me, something even the greatest nobles cannot claim. This builds a sense of loyalty and gratitude. However, by only resurrecting a few commanders, I also make it clear that there are consequences for opposing us too fiercely.”

Amelia stepped back, letting a hand linger on his arm as a private show of affection. “It’s a careful dance. Show too much mercy, and they may see you as weak. Show too much strength; they’ll fear you but never truly trust you, simply thinking of the Revolution as another bully taking power. Leonard’s approach ensures they respect and revere him, seeing him as a genuine leader who is just but not to be trifled with.”

Oliver looked between the two, absorbing their words. “I saw that in the men, but I didn’t think it was that deliberate. It seemed pretty organic to me.”

Leonard sighed, sitting back down, “I don’t particularly enjoy having people treat me as a heavenly savior, but I have learned in my tenure as the Hero that titles don’t mean much in the face of greed and fear. I will not allow the revolution to fail simply because I was too uncomfortable with the trappings of power.”

Amelia walked around him, gently grabbing Oliver’s face and staring deep into his eyes. After a moment of silence, she let him go, seemingly satisfied, “You are very close to your next Blessing. It’s good to see you haven’t wasted your time.”

Oliver sputtered, much to Leonard’s amusement.

“You’ve done well in navigating this delicate balance. The army grows not just in numbers but in spirit and unity. This will be our strength when we take Treon and face Pollus. I have walked through the camp, invisible, and observed the men. Their loyalty is truer than I’ve seen before.”

Leonard smiled, thanking her for the acknowledgment. Then, he turned to Oliver, sensing he had one last question.

“I see that too. But one thing I don’t understand is why go through all that effort with Smith, who is an Expert, and not recruit Locke. He obviously wouldn’t have been easy to convince, but he had to be very frustrated with how Luster-Treon forced his hand. And he was a Master. Having him join us would have unified the people much more than showing the limits to your mercy. Everyone already saw his bisected corpse.”

Leonard extended a hand, softly calling upon the Light, which answered eagerly. He made a grabbing motion, only for the energy to disperse. Amelia’s eyes widened in realization, while Oliver only tilted his head in confusion.

“Even if I wanted to, I wouldn’t have been able to resurrect him. His soul disappeared as soon as he died. He had nothing tying him to the mortal plane.” Leonard answered lowly. “And even if what you said is true, that his presence in this camp would have been a powerful signal, it would have also undermined the cause we fight for. Locke wasn’t distinctly evil like many others, but he was complicit in the system of suffering. He was the guard dog of the old regime. We are not that. Never that.”

Chapter 73 - Hiding Like a Mole - Charry 4

“Captain! We have another sighting, but they left range as soon as we spotted them!”

Charry sighed. He might have gotten spoiled with how easily things had gone so far—Woodsman’s Town excluded. The armored carriages allowed his men to sweep aside any remnants of Treon’s army, opening the way to the city for the main army in record time.

But now that they were almost in sight of their target, a new opponent had entered the field, one he wasn’t honestly sure how to combat.

Charry was an ex-slave with a talent for marksmanship and could reliably lead his band of misfits to achieve whatever goal the brass set for him. The Light also gifted him with a hard noggin and enough luck to avoid dying in situations that had taken much better men than him.

All that mattered little when a dozen Griffin Knights took to the air. The Griffin Knights were an elite unit of the Royal Air Force, notorious for their prowess in both aerial and magical combat. Each was at least an Expert, capable of casting powerful spells from high altitudes to devastate any force below them. Their mounts, the majestic griffins, were equally formidable, resistant to magic below the third tier, and thus impervious to simple rifle fire.

This made them a dire threat to Charry and his men, who were accustomed to fighting grounded opponents. The armored carriages, the only thing in their arsenal that could level the playing field, had to be left behind lest they be immediately spotted—subtle, they were not.

Charry glanced around the makeshift command post, a small cavern hidden beneath a grass-covered hill. It had been hastily constructed by the earth mages paired with his men, who were now becoming indispensable in evading the airborne menace. They could erect and conceal shelters at will, a tactic they had learned from their enemies who had tunneled under their wards the attack on Margì. Charry had learned a lot since then, and his ability had grown significantly, but without them, they’d be toast.

"Anton, what do you make of it?" He asked, turning to his dwarf comrade. Anton, short and stout, with a beard as thick as rough wool, squinted at the map on the stone table. "Griffin Knights are a tough lot, Charry. Fast, lethal from above, and they can see for miles. If we try to engage them head-on, we’re as good as dead. There are terror stories of what happens to dwarves who brave the outside world. There is a reason we never tried to take the surface. We just ain’t made to fight flying beasts.”

Charry nodded, raking a hand through his hair, “We’ll have to be very careful in advancing. If they so much as suspect we are here, they’ll just [Fireball] us until we are all ash. And we can’t get an idea of what the lay of the land is if are stuck here.”

“Bah, just leave it to the seers, I say. They don’t risk getting turned into barbecue for a misstep.”

Charry chuckled, privately agreeing, even if he knew there was a good reason the brass sent them here instead of relying on seers. The griffins’ natural mana resistance meant they were much more challenging to spot through remote viewing—at least that was what General Doomspear said—and having actual eyes on their movements would be necessary to advance the army. It would be even better if they spotted a pattern in their rounds.

Anton knew him well enough by now that he rolled his eyes, understanding with a look that he wouldn’t change their plans. Orders were orders. "We have to use the terrain to our advantage, then. The grasslands around Treon are open, but we might avoid detection if we keep to the tunnels and make new ones only when we are sure they can’t see us. We can also set up decoys to distract them from our actual positions. They already know we are somewhere around here. It just makes sense to see how they’d react before actually engaging.”

“That seems like a good plan to me. Let’s get the earth mages working on more tunnels. We’ll move in smaller groups to prevent losses should we be spotted and only surface when absolutely necessary, but I don’t like the idea of confirming our presence. They suspect, yes, but there is a difference between knowing and suspecting.” Charry decided, clapping the grumbling dwarf on the shoulder. “Let’s get someone to spook the wormole found earlier to see how they react rather than giving up what little advantage we have.”

Their current location was a series of interconnected tunnels beneath Treon's rolling grasslands that the earth mages had magicked up in a few hours of careful work, allowing Charry’s men to move undetected. Above ground, the land was deceptively serene, with tall grasses swaying gently in the wind, masking the movements below.

The men worked hard and carefully, knowing just how dangerous their position was, but also proud of having been assigned such a mission. Their track record was nothing but success so far, and Charry intended to keep it that way.

An hour later, a scout burst into the cavern, breathless. "Captain, another Griffin Knight sighting to the north! This one’s flying low, probably scanning for us.”

“Get the men to release the wormole. I want to see what type of fire we are playing with!” Charry ordered, grabbing his rifle and marching over to a small opening in the hillside.

In the distance, he saw the Griffin Knight, a dark silhouette against the clear sky. The knight was flying lower than usual, close enough that Charry knew he could hit him with a well-placed shot.

His finger itched on the trigger, but he held back. Firing now would reveal their position, and one downed Griffin Knight would not be worth the risk of their entire operation being compromised—if he could even aim so precisely as to avoid the much larger beast below him. Instead, he watched as the knight circled above, his griffin’s mighty wings beating rhythmically.

“That doesn’t look like the usual pattern to me. They might know something new.” Anton commented from beside him, for once leaving his grumblings to the side.

Soon after, the quiet was broken by a low rumble. It grew insistently, becoming loud enough that even the Expert above them took notice and redirected his mount to it.

Suddenly, the ground exploded, sending chunks of earth and patches of grass flying.

From the crater emerged a monstrous creature. A terrifying hybrid of a worm and a mole, as large as an owlbear and much more hideous. Its hide was covered in a thick, earth-toned carapace, and its unseeing eyes glowed ferally at being disturbed. The creature itself made no sound, only the grinding of churned earth following in its wake. As it surfaced, a spike of hardened stone shot from the ground, aimed directly at the griffin.

It let out a piercing screech, banking sharply to avoid the attack. The knight on its back expertly guided the creature, their bond clear in the seamless coordination of their movements. The griffin then ascended rapidly, gaining altitude to escape the immediate threat and reassess.

Charry watched in awe as the battle unfolded. The wormole, using its burrowing ability, dove back into the earth—showing that it understood it couldn’t contest the flying beast outside its habitat— only to resurface moments later, launching another spike. The griffin dodged again, but this time the stone projectile grazed its flank, doing only blunt damage as the dense feathers redirected it. The creature roared in pain, but the knight steadied it with a soothing spell.

From their vantage point, Charry and Anton could see the strategy playing out. The wormole had the advantage of hiding below ground and launching surprise attacks from different positions each time, but the griffin was mightier and faster in the open air. The flying beast retaliated, casting blades of wind that sliced into the earth, tearing apart the ground and forcing the wormole to surface more frequently.

The griffin swooped down, its talons extended, raking deep gouges into the wormole’s flesh so rapidly it couldn’t react. Again and again, it found the earthbound creature the moment it emerged and barrel-rolled to avoid its attacks. Each pass left the creature more battered and bloodied, though it couldn’t be said it lacked willpower, as it never faltered.

It counterattacked by tunneling once more and emerging to launch another spike, only to follow it with a second one hidden in the first’s shadow, surprising Charry and forcing him to reevaluate its intelligence.

It might have tried to lull it into complacency, but I don’t think it’ll be enough.

Indeed, the griffin was ready, and with a mighty flap of its wings, it sent a gust of wind that deflected the spike harmlessly to the side. The surprise attack also failed, as the knight sharply gestured at it with a shout, casting a deep purple barrier. The spike smashed against it, causing cracks to spread, but the griffin was elsewhere by the time it broke.

“That beast has some fight in it, alright. It’s said that wormoles are born with hearing so fine that they hate everything that moves less silently than them. They can hold a grudge for decades and remember the exact cadence of someone’s steps.” Anton muttered, his eyes wide. “But the griffin… it’s something else entirely.”

The wormole’s carapace began to crack under the relentless assault, and its movements grew slower. The griffin, sensing victory, made another diving attack, its talons aimed for the kill.

Likely sensing the coming death, the wormole opened a series of cracks in the earth, making as if to dive in the second only to turn back and jump into the third.

But before it could vanish, safe from retaliation, the knight intervened. He cast a mighty fireball with a flourish, aiming it directly at the ground where the wormole had just disappeared. The explosion was deafening, and the resulting inferno incinerated the nearby grassland, leaving a charred circle of destruction twenty feet wide.

The heat forced the wormole entirely out of the ground, its body smoking and writhing in agony. The griffin knight took advantage of the moment, directing his mount into a final, lethal dive. The griffin’s beak struck true, obliterating the wormole’s head and ending its struggle with a final, shuddering convulsion.

Charry and Anton watched, stunned into silence. The griffin let out a triumphant screech, the knight raising his hand in a victory salute.

“Damn,” Charry finally breathed. “They’re tougher than I thought.”

Anton nodded grimly, “Adult wormoles require a band of Apprentices and at least an Expert to defeat. They are too slippery otherwise and mean to boot. I have seen one rip a Dwarrow knight apart with its claws, armor and all. The griffin might have the advantage of terrain, but we should be very careful in how we deal with them.”

Charry turned to his men, who were equally captivated by the display. “This doesn’t change anything. It only confirms what we already know. Keep to the plan. Move through the tunnels and stay hidden at all costs. We need to find another way to take these knights down, but for now, our best bet is avoiding direct confrontation and noting down everything we can so that the army knows what to expect. Our powerhouses will deal with the griffin knights.”

The men nodded, determination set in their eyes. Charry knew they were in for a tough fight, but they had come too far to turn back now. This wouldn’t be their first failure.

It didn’t hurt that they had all personally seen the corpse of General Locke before it was interred. A Master often touted as the bulwark of the South, he had been powerless before the Grand Marshal.

Yes, the Griffin Knights are powerful, and if we were a simple rebel army, we’d be in real danger, but we aren’t. We have our own monsters, and they are so much scarier than a flying chicken.

Chapter 74 - Count without the O - Eleanor 2

To be perfectly honest, Eleanor wasn’t quite sure what she was supposed to tell her employer that couldn’t be gleaned from a quick look around the castle. Considering their mysterious method for getting her messages, they—or another intermediary— had to be capable of getting in. Some of her questions about them had been answered as of late, but most remained frustratingly obscure.

Still, she dutifully compiled the latest gossip every night and added some of her observations, sometimes earning a bit more than she expected.

Lately, the Count had been having more feasts, and she was sure it was to distract himself from the suddenly imminent possibility of Treon being besieged.

Well, not entirely imminent since, as far as she knew, the rebels lacked ships capable of challenging the Royal Navy, thus leaving their access to the sea through the Great Slitherer unimpeded. Still, she hadn’t heard anything about them being so strong as to sweep Locke’s army away, and it looked increasingly like that was what had happened, so she might be wrong. She was just a maid, after all.

At the moment, she was taking a tray of Branderi sweetfruit beverages to the Count’s office, where a meeting with the commanders of the remaining forces would take place. If she was lucky, she wouldn’t be immediately dismissed and could quietly blend into the background and listen. Maybe she’d earn enough for that lovely golden bracelet she had seen the other day, or she could spend some of her stash to buy a magic book…

Eleanor adjusted her grip on the tray, ensuring the goblets remained steady as she approached the Count's second office. Her dress was immaculate and her hair coiffed, rather than free—Luster-Treon was known to prefer long hair, and while hers could fit his taste if she untied it, she had heard horror stories of those girls that were taken in as concubines, only to be spat out into the streets once the man got bored.

The heavy wooden doors were slightly ajar, and she could hear the droning voice of an official inside, discussing the current state of supplies. She took a deep breath, preparing herself for the performance.

Pushing the door open with her hip, Eleanor entered the room with practiced grace. The Count, young and handsome as always, with long blonde hair cascading over his shoulders, lounged lazily on a plush recliner with several of his noble attendants arrayed around him as if holding court. His expression was one of utter boredom, his blue eyes half-lidded as he listened to a young Navy official with enough medals he couldn’t be dismissed out of hand. Not without a cause, at least.

"...the flow of mana crystals has slowed down significantly," the man said, not stopping as she walked over. "We are also starting to stash food supplies in anticipation of potential rationing. We don’t believe our access to the sea will be meaningfully challenged, but Garva has been slow to respond to our requests since there is a swell of barbarians making their way to the Death Pass. If this continues and we really are alone until Count Pollus arrives, we will need to consider alternate plans to ensure the survival of the local nobles and their households.”

The Count, who had been twirling a lock of his golden hair, seemed to perk up at the second part. He sat up slightly, his interest piqued, but not in the way Eleanor thought the officer would have hoped. His eyes narrowed, and a spark of anger flashed across his face.

"Are you suggesting," he began coldly, "that we might lose? That we might need to flee like cowards when faced with peasants and slaves?!”

The official remained stoic despite his young age, likely having been already invited to a party and subjected to Ronald Luster-Treon’s personal brand of hospitality. "My lord, I am merely bringing you the conclusion that wiser men than me have reached— that we prepare for all eventualities. It is prudent to have contingencies in place.”

Eleanor moved closer, setting the tray down on a small table near the Count. As she did so, the Count's face twisted in fury. Without warning, he grabbed one of the goblets from the tray and hurled it. The metal goblet struck the officer’s shoulder, spilling the expensive sweetfruit beverage across his uniform.

"You dare speak of defeat in my presence?" the Count screamed, his voice echoing off the stone walls. "You dare imply that we might fail?” Oily mana pressed down on everyone, though no one dared complain.

The official winced at the blow but did not react further, standing rigidly as the Count's tirade continued. Eleanor stepped back, her heart pounding in her chest. She had seen the Count's temper before, but it never failed to unsettle her.

"We are not going to lose," the Count raged, rising to his feet. His face was flushed with anger, and his long hair whipped around as he gesticulated wildly. "Nobles do not flee like commoners. I am the ruler of this land, and I will stand my ground! Weiss will not bend me!”

The official’s face was a mask of composure as he bowed. "Of course, my lord. I apologize for my lack of faith.” The Count seemed to calm somewhat at the man's submission, though his eyes still blazed with anger. He turned away, waving his hand dismissively. "Leave me. And do not bring such pessimism into my presence again.”

The official bowed again and stiffly exited the room. Eleanor watched him go, sympathy and fear warring within her. The Count collapsed back into his recliner, running a hand through his hair, turning to one of his attendants, “Why do I always have to deal with such idiots?” He asked, just loud enough to be heard through the still-open door.

Eleanor knew just how satisfying he found humiliating others, especially those beholden to him, so she smoothly moved to one of the corners, away from his line of sight but still close enough to be of service should he need it.

Ronald Luster-Treon let out a dramatic sigh, his irritation still evident. His attendants, mostly sons of minor nobles without duties beyond sycophantically following the high noble, quickly moved to soothe him. One of them, a lanky youth named Harland with dark curls, stepped forward with a smarmy smile.

"My lord, it's truly baffling how these officials cannot comprehend your vision," he murmured theatrically. "But rest assured, we, your loyal servants, understand and support your unwavering resolve.” The Count's expression softened slightly at the flattery.

He sipped from the second goblet and leaned back, crossing one leg over the other. "Indeed, my friend. Their lack of faith is infuriating. I cannot wait for the moment Leonard Weiss finally reaches our walls. I shall ride out and challenge him to a duel.”

There was a collective intake of breath from the attendants, though Eleanor doubted any of them believed such a scenario was realistic. Leonard Weiss was rumored to be a Champion, a warrior of unmatched skill and power, while the Count was barely an Expert. Yet, they all nodded vigorously, eager to please.

"Of course, my lord!" round-faced Melos exclaimed. "You will vanquish him and bring glory to Treon!”

"Absolutely, my lord," echoed tall and thin Edmund. "The hero's reputation will crumble before your might.”

Roland basked in their adulation, a smug smile playing on his lips. "Yes, yes. And when Weiss falls, so will the rest of the rebels. They will scatter like leaves in the wind once they understand what they are up against. A real noble, nothing like those dregs they faced so far.”

Melos, ever eager to curry favor, casually steered the conversation away from dangerous waters. "It's quite something, isn't it, my lord? General Locke's loss. Who would have thought he could be so easily bested?”

The Count went with it and chuckled, a low, mocking sound. "I never trusted that man. Too stiff and proper, always prattling on about honor and duty. To lose two battles, have his army annihilated, and disappear like that? It makes me dubious about the earlier achievements to his name.”

The attendants exchanged uneasy glances, each aware of Locke's accomplishments and knowing better than to badmouth the real power in the city directly—even if rumors swirled about his possible death. They also knew their audience and how he’d react to perceived defiance. Instead of expressing any judgment, most just nodded in agreement, their faces carefully neutral.

And with the General gone… It won’t be long before his name is tarnished, and he’s accused of everything under the sun. That’s how Ronald Luster-Treon works, and now that he’s the only authority in the city, it’s his tune that will be sung.

"Indeed, my lord," Melos agreed, his voice strained. "It seems his reputation was undeserved.”

"Clearly," the Count said, dismissing the matter with a wave of his hand. "Now, enough of this talk. Let's focus on more pleasant things.” Which was the cue for the servants to prepare the room for company.

One of the attendants, a fair-haired boy with a mischievous glint in his eye that she might have enjoyed in other circumstances, gestured to Eleanor. "Girl, clean up this mess," he commanded, pointing to the spilled juice.

Eleanor quickly moved to comply, kneeling down to clean the sticky liquid from the floor. As she did, the young nobles jeered and made crude remarks about her body, their laughter echoing in the room. She felt her cheeks burn with humiliation but kept her head down, not giving them the reaction they wanted.

None of the other servants offered her support, not that she expected them to. The only saving grace so far was that the Count was only amused at her humiliation rather than interested. That would have been dangerous.

"Look at her, scrambling like a little mouse," one sneered.

"Careful, you might miss a spot," another taunted, pushing her with his boot and tipping her over.

Eleanor got back up and finished her task as quickly as possible, her hands trembling slightly. She retreated to the corner of the room without making a sound. The Count and his clique paid her no further mind, bored at her lack of response, their attention already shifting to their next topic of conversation.

Hours later, Eleanor’s shift finally ended, and she slipped out of the castle as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows over Treon. She pulled a hood over her head, concealing her face as she walked through the still-bustling city. The streets were alive with the sounds of commerce, vendors calling out their wares, and people chattering as they hurried to complete their errands before nightfall.

Yet, despite the normalcy of activity, a palpable haze of worry had settled over the city. Conversations were hushed, and glances were furtive. People spoke in low tones about the rumors of the rebels and the recent defeats suffered by General Locke—unsurprisingly since the castle leaked like a sieve on the best days. Even the normally vibrant market stalls seemed subdued, their colors muted in the waning light.

Eleanor moved swiftly, her footsteps barely making a sound as she navigated the crowded streets. She passed a group of children playing a game of tag, their laughter innocent in a way she hadn’t been for a long time. A woman hurried past, clutching a basket of goods tightly to her chest, her eyes darting nervously from side to side.

Eventually, she meandered down a narrow alley, the sounds of the city fading behind her. It was dimly lit, the flickering light from a lone lantern casting eerie shadows on the walls. She stopped before a nondescript door, its surface worn and splintered. A burly young man stepped out of the shadows, blocking her path. His face was rough and scarred, and he spoke gruffly. “Password?”

Eleanor’s heart pounded as she answered, but her voice was steady. “The night is darkest before the dawn.” The man grunted and stepped aside, allowing her to pass.

She pushed open the door and descended a narrow staircase, the air growing cooler, and damper with each step. The stairs led to a large, dimly lit room that buzzed with activity. It was a tavern of sorts, filled with misfits, smugglers, and all manner of unsavory characters. The air was thick with the smell of smoke and spilled ale, and the low hum of conversation mingled with the occasional burst of raucous laughter.

Eleanor kept her hood up, ignoring the jeers and leers from the patrons as she made her way deeper into the tavern. She could feel their eyes on her, but none dared to make a move. Her presence was known here, and while she was not untouchable, the consequences of bothering her were understood.

She reached a door at the far end of the room and knocked three times, the sound barely audible over the din of the tavern. A familiar, smooth voice from within called out, “Enter.”

Eleanor pushed the door open and slipped inside, closing it silently behind her. The room was small and sparsely furnished, with a simple wooden desk and a few chairs. Candles flickered on the desk, casting a warm glow over the room. Sitting behind the desk was a handsome man in priestly robes, his dark hair neatly combed and his piercing eyes filled with warmth.

Eleanor greeted him, her voice soft and respectful. “Vicar Damien.”

His returning smile set her heart on fire.

Chapter 75 - The Power of Good Messages - Leonard 30

Coming into sight of Treon felt surreal. Leonard couldn’t precisely point out why, but after so long marching through the Darkwood and the swamp, finally reaching his target made him feel contemplative.

With massive walls surrounding the city and a flourishing, well-guarded port on the Great Slitherer, Treon was considered almost unassailable under conventional doctrine.

Yes, sufficient firepower could break through any ward, but it was a foolish commander who thought his enemies would allow him the time to batter down at their wards for days.

Considering the presence of the Air Force and the Navy still at full force within the city, Leonard didn’t think a direct assault would work. Even should he be able to open a breach through the wards— and for the first time, he felt cautious about it since these protections had the benefit of being maintained by a real Magic Tower, with dozens of Experts and several Masters and the power required to break them would also be enough to obliterate the city—making their way through the streets while fighting back against the local Watch and the Navy’s bombardments would mean an unacceptable loss in his men.

Adding to that the recon teams’ reports, which explained that the Griffin Knights maintained a dedicated schedule that worked randomly and covered almost every inch of the surrounding territory, Leonard felt he needed to take a different approach than usual.

Piece by piece is less satisfying than a big battle, but Damien is already within the city, working to undermine the Count and the Admiral. If I can remove the most significant obstacle—the Air Force—from the table… then a direct assault suddenly becomes viable. And the people inside with a brain should realize that, too.

“Grand Marshal, General Neer is here for you,” one of the guards outside his tent called, and Leonard startled back to the present, leaving his daydreams of smashing through the walls for another moment. He needed to set the game first.

“Let her in.” He said from his comfortable chair. Perks of being the big boss.

A gloved hand opened the flap, letting Neer through. The half-orc looked different these days. She had a settled air of contentment about her. War suited her well, and surprisingly, so did the training and maintenance of the Security Forces.

Calling her back from her duties, even for just a couple of days, had seen some resistance among his War Council, as they had all started to lean on the SF to provide stability to the newly conquered territories—Gerard, in particular, had come to see her as a pillar of their strategy. Apparently, even the most recalcitrant village turned peaceful and quiet once her men were given command. It was enough of a difference between what everyone knew was traditionally required to pacify new lands that the divination division had been ordered to ensure no secret massacre or plotting was taking place among the population.

What they had found was that nothing untoward was going on. After the initial expected freakout, the people calmed down upon receiving the first shipments of grain and materials and then became genuine believers in the Revolution as their standard of life took off. It turned out that a peaceful society, with enough resources to incentivize the production of valuable consumables like potions and clothing, who could sell their entire surplus to their new liege at a fair price, and whose safety was ensured by a competent, well-trained force who didn’t abuse their power, simply started liking their new circumstances enough that thoughts of rebelling fled their minds.

It had reached the point where Leonard was pretty sure Neer had discovered a method to reliably develop a specific Class of guardsmen who provided buffs to social peace.

But despite her enjoyment of the backlines duty, Leonard knew her blood still longed for dangerous missions, so he’d occasionally pull her back to the front.

“Grand Marshal, it is good to see you in good health. From the stunts that trickle down to the countryside, it seems you are always throwing yourself in danger.” Neer greeted, showing a dose of cheek she would have never dared to even just a couple of months ago.

Leonard was delighted. “General Neer, it is good to see you as well. I didn’t want you to get rusty with the cushy job you’ve gotten.”

Such a statement would have made her cringe once upon a time. However, her exposure to the soldier’s life and being away from a slave collar made her take the ribbing without a flinch.

Instead, Neer chuckled, a broad smile stretching her tusked lips. “Cushy, Grand Marshal? I’d invite you to try handling logistics and morale for ten villages at once every given day. But it’s true, I’ve been itching for a mission that requires a bit more direct involvement. My boys are pretty good these days. I barely need to beat them up.”

“Good,” Leonard said, leaning forward. “I have just the task for you. We need someone to infiltrate Treon. The wards are still not fully operational, which gives us a narrow window, especially with what I have planned. Your objective is to meet with Damien and coordinate the subterfuge within the city. He’ll explain more once you are there, but you will mostly have to act as backup in his dealings with the leaders he’ll meet and have to develop connections of your own to facilitate our takeover. Can you do it?”

“I’d be honored, Grand Marshal. Thank you for this opportunity!” Neer saluted and enthusiastically marched out of the tent without waiting for a reply.

Leonard watched her go, amused by her eagerness. He shook his head, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

A few hours later, as the moon hung high in the sky, Leonard received confirmation from Amelia’s shadows that Neer was inside Treon. It was what he had been waiting for. Finally, it was time to proceed with the second part of his plan.

He sent a soldier to summon Gareth. For this next mission, he needed a daring knight or a crazy bastard, and Gareth was both.

Clad in gleaming armor, he arrived only a few minutes later, seemingly not needing to sleep now that he had achieved the Fourth Blessing.

“I need you to deliver a message to the entire city of Treon, though it is addressed to the Count,” Leonard said, handing Gareth a sealed missive. “You’ll read it from just outside Treon’s walls, using a spell to enhance your voice so the entire city can hear. Make sure to get out before the cannons are ready to fire.”

A loyal man who knew better than to ask unnecessary questions, Gareth bowed and assented, “Understood, Grand Marshal. I won’t let you down.”

Leonard clasped his shoulder. “I know you won’t. Now, go prepare. I want you under the walls by dawn. Use the cover of darkness to get as close as you can and start reading once you have been spotted. Don’t let anything interrupt you.”

And with that, the man was off.

“I should start looking into how quickly my people go along with what I say. Oh well, as long as I have Amelia and Lia to tell me off, I’ll be okay.”

Through a Jean-refined remote viewing spell, Leonard followed Gareth’s path to the city.

The darkness enveloped him as he rode through the night, his armor barely making a sound thanks to enchantments placed on it. The faintest hint of dawn began to lighten the horizon. The massive walls loomed ominously against the slowly brightening sky as he neared Treon, following the one path the recon teams had spotted to be free of Griffin Knights.

Gareth paused just outside cannon range, seemingly waiting for the right moment. His horse, a well-trained third-tier steed, stood perfectly still, its breath misting in the early morning air. Gareth listened intently, hearing the distant murmur of the city waking up and the occasional clink of a sentry’s armor, waiting for the right moment.

As the first rays of sunlight began to pierce the horizon, Gareth nudged his horse forward, and Leonard noticed the spark of mana that disrupted a noise-dampening spell.

The sound of hooves on the cobblestone road alerted the sentries on the walls, and he could hear shouts as they noticed him. Without hesitation, Gareth cast the spell to amplify his voice, making it resonate through the air like a thunderclap.

“Ronald Luster-Treon, Count of Treon!” He boomed, voice magically reaching every corner of the city. “By order of the Grand Marshal of the Revolution, the Hero of the Light, Sir Leonard Weiss, I demand your immediate surrender!”

Any noise coming from behind the walls ceased immediately. Leonard pulled his view back and saw people craning their heads outside windows, mutely listening to words that none of them would survive saying.

“Your walls and wards will not protect you from the Will of the People. Your Air Force has proven itself cowardly, sitting idle while brave young men perished. Your inaction has led to unnecessary bloodshed and suffering, and you lost the only man capable of organizing a defense. General Locke is dead, slain by the Sky Blade.”

The movements on the wall became frantic as sentries scrambled to ready the cannons. Energy began to gather around the barrels, crackling with barely contained power. Gareth kept his focus, his voice unwavering. “Surrender now, and spare your city the destruction that is to come. Know this: the Revolution fights for the people, for justice, and for a future where all are free. Your reign is over. Surrender, or face the wrathful judgment of the Light.”

With that, Gareth dropped the letter and urged his horse into a gallop. The city’s cannons fired, tearing through the air just inches from him. He obviously felt the heat and shockwave of the explosions as he rode, but he managed to avoid the worst of it, his steed successfully maneuvering around the blasts.

Now that the main part was done, Leonard pushed his sight further into the city, curious to see what the reaction would be. The reports he had received on the Count described him as an entitled, lazy man who couldn’t tolerate a blow to his pride. Especially not one done when the entire city could hear.

Indeed, the people on the streets seemed to realize this, and they began scurrying away, their duties for the day forgotten in the face of a much direr emergency.

The activity on the walls continued to increase, even though their target was long gone, and a quick peek revealed it was mostly for show. Leonard was quite sure in his assessment that once the initial wrath wore off, the Count would be looking for people to blame, and those manning the fortifications failing at stopping the letter from being read would be the first on the chopping block.

It was unfair and unfortunate, but overall, it was a minor sacrifice, mainly because the commander on duty seemed calm enough to either have an idea of how to avoid blame or was such an idiot he didn’t deserve saving.

Deeper into the city, where spells meant to keep prying eyes and ears away were active and clashed irritatingly against his, Leonard observed the Navy base wake up, with men shouting orders and soldiers scrambling to arm their ships. Again, he didn’t expect much to come from this. His army’s camp was too far for the navy to hit, and even should they have developed a new, far-ranging weapon, Jean’s temporary wards would resist anything short of another Champion hitting them.

The castle, on the other hand, was deathly silent. It was as if every man and woman working there had fled, and going by the loud shouting coming from the inner keep, they were right to do so.

Finally, Leonard turned his gaze toward the furthest target. Close to the northern border of Treon’s wall was a large field that was seemingly empty save for a couple of squat buildings, a large ship, and what looked to be stables made for horses twice the average size.

There, the Griffin Knights were putting on their armor, casting protection spells, and preparing their mounts. Leonard even saw several uniformed soldiers march to the ship with chests of what had to be mana crystals.

Satisfied, he cut off the spell. His plan had worked.

Chapter 76 - One Man Army? - Oliver 7

The initial frenzy after the message had been delivered gave way to a terse quiet. The Griffin Knights had not led an attack but still substantially increased their patrols and closed what little gaps the recon teams had found.

Oliver had even donned his armor several times in preparation for a confrontation, but the Air Force kept to the sky four times in a row, never getting low enough to engage.

The divination division also reassured them that while the King-Vasily Class Airship had been fitted out for combat, there were no indications that it would take off anytime soon.

Sir Leonard was so sure they would attack…It seems crazy that they would take the insult quietly, but they might have realized how outmatched they are. Or they could have a competent Captain who knows better than to sacrifice his men when waiting for a week or two will see them in a much better position, with Count Pollus closing in.

“Oi, Little Marshal, we are getting called up again. The chickens are flying.” Hector, one of the few people his age who didn’t seem intimidated by his relationship with Sir Leonard, called, and Oliver scrambled up to put his armor back on. He appreciated being treated normally but already knew that nickname would stick. He knew better than to fight it, however, or he’d never get rid of it.

It would be the second time this afternoon the Griffin Knights sortied close enough to warrant a response. While Oliver didn’t think of himself as prone to paranoia, it did seem like they were trying to get an idea of what opposition they might find in preparation for an attack.

“Coming! Just a second!” He yelled, struggling to put his helmet on. He’d have foregone it usually, more than protected enough by all the enchantments placed on his armor by Lady Jean, but the story of how a griffin had turned a wormole’s head to mist with its dive had stuck with him.

Outside his tent, Hector huffed impatiently. As soon as Oliver emerged, the short teenager started walking away, following the throngs of other soldiers.

“Is anything different from the last time?” Oliver asked, catching up with his longer legs. It was one of his favorite perks of his latest growth spurt. His ‘ma would struggle to recognize him these days, with how much muscle and inches he had put on.

“Not that I know. The Grand Marshal’s guards sent me to collect you, though, so it might be serious. He didn’t come out the previous times.” Hector answered, turning a questioning look his way. Oliver was the man’s squire, after all. It stood to reason he’d have a better idea of his motivations.

The redhead hummed, checking his straps one last time. He wouldn’t make the mistake of forgetting to tighten his sword more than once.

“Might be that they are attacking then. Sir Leonard doesn’t like to waste time unnecessarily.”

Soldiers bustled around them, preparing for all eventualities. An undercurrent of expectation and nervous energy ran through the camp as people checked and rechecked their equipment, shouldering rifles and donning armor. Everybody knew the coming fight wouldn’t directly involve them unless things went badly, but they were too well-trained to be sloppy.

As they reached the western end of the camp, where ranks of soldiers were forming up, Oliver felt a pang of nervous excitement. Today wouldn’t be the end of the campaign, not even the end of the struggle to take Treon, but a victory now would mean the most significant hurdle left would be gone.

It would also be proof of concept of General Gerard Dortmund’s doctrine, which now called for specific units to be formed in answer to current needs from bigger pools of trained soldiers rather than spending time and money they didn’t have to build up new Corps following the traditional understanding of war. That this could only apply to an army where Champions were as common as Experts in a small town meant no one had ever tested it before, but Oliver had faith it would work.

Of course, all that means is that Sir Leonard, Lady Franklin, and Lady Amelia will do the heavy lifting while the rest of the army watches them beat the Air Force. We’ll be the ones entering Treon, but it’s not as complicated as reading it in the white paper makes it sound.

“Try not to die, Little Marshal. I still haven’t made fun of you enough,” Hector said roughly, spinning around and marching to where his Captain was organizing the ranks.

Oliver shook his head in amusement and made his way to the head of the army, where Sir Leonard stood in his resplendent armor, quietly conversing with Lady Jean.

Tall and imposing, with his golden hair and confident demeanor, Sir Leonard exuded a calm authority that would have seemed at odds with the tense situation if he didn’t have the full trust of everyone around him. No one doubted he’d lead them to victory.

Beside him, Lady Jean, the albino teenage girl with an aura of mystery and power, caught Oliver's eye. She greeted him with a kind smile, and he felt his cheeks flush under his helm. He quickly pushed the feeling down, reminding himself to think of Margaret instead. The youngest Archmage in Haylich’s history did not deserve to be on the end of a teenage crush, much less one coming from her friend’s squire.

Oliver thought he might die if his admiration ever got out.

"Oliver," Sir Leonard acknowledged him with a nod. “Good, you are here. The time is almost right.”

As if on cue, a runner from the divination division approached, panting slightly from his haste. "Grand Marshal, the wards around the Air Force field are up and running, obscuring our vision.”

Sir Leonard's expression hardened, his eyes narrowing with determination. "It seems they mean business this time.”

Oliver saw the soldier’s eyes cloud in confusion and fought the urge to smile. His mentor was a fantastic person and possibly the greatest fighter in the world. But occasionally, owing to his otherworldly origin, he’d use a term or idiom that made no sense in Haylich. It was a fun, harmless quirk that reminded him that even Sir Leonard was human.

“I suppose that means it won’t just be Griffin Knights this time, right?” Oliver asked, more to distract himself from the impending fight than out of genuine curiosity.

Sir Leonard made to answer but was preempted as Lady Jean launched into an enthusiastic explanation. “Yes, we are likely to finally see the King Vasily Class Airship in action. They are a marvel of magical engineering, you know? They operate on highly complex rune matrices, requiring a hundred high-quality mana stones for even a simple liftoff. I helped refine the matrix to be more efficient just a few months ago, but I doubt Treon's airship has been updated yet.”

Oliver listened, fascinated despite the gravity of the situation. Lady Jean's knowledge and passion for magic were always captivating, even if it did make him blush when she addressed him directly.

"Perhaps I should take it upon myself to disable the airship," she suggested, her eyes sparkling at the opportunity to be helpful.

But Sir Leonard shook his head, putting a stop to her bellicose plans. "No, Jean. I need you here to defend the army from stray shots. I will handle the airship.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but Sir Leonard's resolve was clear. She nodded, albeit reluctantly, trusting in his judgment.

"Very well, Leo. But be careful. The King Vasily is no ordinary vessel.”

Leonard nodded, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "I will.”

Over the next hour, the Griffin Knights became more visible, increasing in numbers as they circled far above the army. Their mighty forms and wide wingspans cast shadows over the camp, making the soldiers shift uneasily. Allowing the enemy to set up went against every instinct that had been driven into them, but this wasn’t their fight. They were just there to witness.

Oliver counted up to two dozen, but Lady Jean, with her greater attunement to the currents of magic, corrected him.

"There are actually thirty of them," she murmured, scanning the sky. Eight are using concealment magic to hide, one of whom is a Master. Oh, that’s a pretty decent usage of [Environmental Mimicry]. They must have used Archmage Buross as an inspiration.”

Oliver just nodded dumbly.

Then, a vast object lifted off from Treon, and everyone held their breath.

The King Vasily Class Airship was an imposing sight—a colossal vessel suspended in the sky by powerful magic. Its hull gleamed with the metallic sheen of polished ironwood, carved with intricate runes that pulsed with arcane energy.

Cannons lined its sides, their barrels menacingly pointed toward the Revolutionary Army with enough firepower to turn Treon into dust. Dozens of protective wards layered the ship, creating a shimmering barrier that seemed to hum with latent power. Even from miles away, Oliver could feel the weight of its magical presence, a tangible pressure that settled over him like a heavy cloak and made breathing difficult.

This was the greatest magical achievement of Haylich’s mages. A flying behemoth so mighty that the mere threat of its presence was enough to pacify most of its borders.

Yes, it was hideously expensive to operate, and yes, it required so many Expert and Master craftsmen and mages to work together to beggar high nobles, but even knowing the people operating it wouldn’t hesitate to turn him into a smear, Oliver couldn’t help but find it majestic.

Sir Leonard broke the stillness by stepping away from the army and moving forward with deliberate calm. He drew his sword, Dyeus catching the sunlight and gleaming with Light.

And just like that, people were once again free to move, their fears fading with the wind.

Oliver remained close to Lady Jean, who began casting protective spells.

She extended her hands, and silver mana emanated from her palms. The first spell looked like a simple Barrier of Radiance—commonly used by Paladins to temporarily ward a campsite against monster attacks. And yet, something about it tickled Oliver funny.

A dome of pure, shimmering light formed above the army, its surface rippling like water. Wisps of different colors swirled through it, and Oliver’s knees buckled under the weight of its creation, the sheer force of Jean's magic pressing down on him. Beyond just the absurd scale, something about the spell told him it was much greater than its base component. Oliver wanted to ask, but he was taught better than to interrupt a mage at work, especially one charged with protecting his life.

Next, she cast the expected Aegis of Winds—the one spell everyone agreed was effective when facing airborne foes. A swirling vortex of air formed around the barrier, its currents creating an additional layer of defense. The winds howled and twisted, creating a buffer zone that would disrupt the trajectory of any dive the Griffin Knights might undertake. Again, its scale was far beyond anything he had ever seen a single person achieve before, but there was a reason Lady Jean was considered a prodigy without equal.

As the barriers settled, the flying beasts pulled back, not willing to test their chances, and settled into a formation around the approaching airship. They flew with mechanical precision, the griffins' wings beating in unison as they circled the ship like a living shield. The sight of the approaching vessel was enough to send a shiver of worry down Oliver’s back, but one look at his mentor made him breathe freely.

Sir Leonard stood alone, unworried, waiting for them. His stance was relaxed, his sword held loosely at his side. Despite what should have been overwhelming odds, he exuded a deep confidence that calmed all those behind him.

A low whine started, ramping up quickly until it felt it was coming from next to his ears.

No words were exchanged.

The airship’s cannons glowed like a dozen miniature suns, and after a moment, they fired.

Chapter 77 - One Man Army! - Oliver 8

Fear was an old companion for Oliver. He had known it when his village’s hunters failed to return, and the elders feared a powerful monster had claimed their land. He had felt it during the frantic flight to safety once the Incursion’s presence was confirmed. He had been afraid when his mother told him he needed to find work to help feed his family.

But now, watching what should have been certain death approach his mentor, Oliver didn’t feel afraid.

Expectant. Worried. Trusting. Anxious. But not afraid.

The airship’s cannons opened fire, and the very air was rent asunder. The atmosphere lit up, and Oliver couldn’t see anything for a moment.

And yet, he didn’t feel fear.

The first shot went wide. The hill the Revolutionary Army had used as an encampment just a day before ceased existing in a fraction of a second.

There was no thunderous explosion. No debris raining down. The hill was just gone, a bubbling, smoking crater of superheated earth in its place.

It had obviously been a demonstration shot meant to intimidate the rebels. Oliver couldn’t see anyone who wasn’t impressed with the firepower, but equally, no one seemed ready to surrender. People trusted their commander with their lives. If Sir Leonard Weiss didn’t think they should be afraid, they wouldn’t be.

It was as simple as that.

After two long minutes in which Oliver could imagine the airship’s crew’s confusion at the lack of a response, the cannons started glowing again. Sir Leonard finally moved, bringing his sword to stand before him in a classic ready position.

It looked like he was going to take the attack on.

Oliver watched in rapt attention from his position next to Lady Jean, his breath catching in his throat as the airship's cannons charged up again. The mana drawn to the weapons was visible, a tangible force that made the hairs on his arms stand on end. The air hummed, thickening with magical weight.

Despite the mounting tension, Sir Leonard remained still, his eyes fixed on the approaching threat.

The cannons fired. Beams of concentrated mana shot forth with blinding intensity, their sheer power ripping the air apart. The landscape was illuminated in a harsh, otherworldly light, and Oliver's vision went nearly white again. Desperate not to miss anything, he forced an excessive amount of mana into his eyes, sharpening his sight despite the overwhelming brilliance. He would not, could not take his eyes off his mentor.

Sir Leonard took a deep breath, his movement almost in slow motion, chest rising and falling.

Then, with a focus that bordered on the divine, he opened the floodgates to his own mana. The battlefield seemed to hold its breath as an immense presence descended, pressing down with a weight that dwarfed even the airship’s might.

Light visibly materialized around him, forming a radiant halo that crowned his head and shoulders. His sword gleamed with ethereal brilliance as he raised it high. The mana swirling around him acted as a beacon for a hundred miles, and all creatures stopped to witness it.

Sir Leonard brought Dyeus down to meet the oncoming beam. The world seemed to freeze for an instant, the clash of powers hanging in the balance.

Then, in a stunning display that Oliver would have believed impossible if he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes, the beam was cleaved in two. The attack meant to annihilate the Revolutionary Army split and arced harmlessly to either side of the protective dome. They carved deep furrows into the earth, extending hundreds of feet and leaving smoldering trenches in their wake, but the army remained untouched, the shields not even disturbed.

Oliver's heart pounded in his chest, awe mingling with euphoria coursing through his veins. He could barely comprehend the sheer scale of the feat he had just witnessed.

Sir Leonard stood firm, the Light around him only increasing in intensity rather than dissipating after what should have drained any other mortal.

Cheers swept through the army once sight returned to the men and they realized what had happened, the soldiers shouting chants of "Freedom!" and "Hero! Hero!"

Expecting their leader to win and seeing it happen were different things, and the effect on the morale was palpable; every soldier seemed to stand taller, their resolve steeled by the miraculous display.

Oliver saw Lady Jean look up from the corner of his eye, so he followed her gaze and noticed the Griffin Knights moving erratically in the sky. Their graceful formations faltered, and they flew with a disoriented, almost panicked urgency. He turned fully to the Archmage, who had calmly stood beside him through it all, almost as if she had expected it.

“The sheer power used by the airship must have damaged the griffins' senses,” she explained without looking away, her voice carrying over the din. “The intense mana discharge has practically blinded them, even if Leonard deliberately avoided hitting them. They must be quite vulnerable.”

As if on cue, spikes of shadow erupted from the ground, launching upwards with unerring precision. The Griffin Knights, already struggling to maintain their bearings, were caught off guard. While some managed to avoid being hit, several griffins were struck, and their riders were thrown from their saddles in a stunning display of power. Oliver gasped; everyone knew griffins were resistant to third-tier magic, and no one would make such a foolish mistake. That could only mean that what had to be a hundred Master-tier spells had been launched all at once.

Lady Amelia had taken the field.

With the initial volleys done, the battle commenced in earnest. Two of the Revolution’s greatest against an entire Corp of the Royal Air Force.

The Griffin Knights, recovering from the initial shock, dived towards the army, raining spells in an attempt to break through the shields. However, Lady Jean's protective wards held firm, the spells fizzling harmlessly against the translucent dome.

More shadow attacks surged upward, each strike meticulously targeting those who exposed themselves to attack and thus could not outmaneuver the spikes. Every spell that connected downed a griffin, but Oliver noted, thanks to his still-running enhancing spell, that the creatures were deliberately not killed. Instead, they disappeared alongside their riders just before they hit the ground, taken away in a burst of shadowy magic.

Even in a momentous battle like this, Lady Amelia was thinking of the future.

Oliver’s attention was forcefully turned away as his senses were almost overwhelmed by a sudden increase in the ambient Light.

Now glowing like a star, Sir Leonard leaped into the sky as if gravity could not hold him. He swung Dyeus, sending a mighty crescent of energy hurtling towards the airship.

The arc of power clashed with the ship’s shields, cracking them visibly.

They were quickly repaired thanks to the airship's crew scrambling to maintain their defenses, but that a single, almost casual strike could damage them was sure to make the men rethink their choices.

Oliver watched his mentor float in the sky, wings of golden mana holding him aloft. He could feel the army’s awe and joy turn into reverence.

Today will have consequences far beyond what a victory should bring. Even the fact that Sir Leonard can tank a hit from a heavy airship will be secondary to what the men are seeing now. This is stuff from the realm of legends.

An aerial duel ensued, with Sir Leonard engaging the airship relentlessly, almost chasing it down. His every strike forced the crew to consume more resources to keep the ship in the air. The airship fired more beams, weaker but faster than the initial blast. Sir Leonard easily batted them aside, demonstrating overwhelming skill in the face of what should have been an unbeatable opponent.

The army below watched in awe as their Grand Marshal continued his assault, wearing down the airship's protections with every strike. Oliver could imagine the strain on the enemy crew; their movements becoming frantic, their mana crystal reserves depleting under the relentless onslaught, forcing them to begin tapping into their own power lest they fall out of the sky.

The airship, in what should have been an unthinkable action, turned sharply in the air, picking up speed as it steered away from the battlefield, heading back toward Treon. The sight of the vessel that was the pride of the Royal Air Force fleeing sent the soldiers into a frenzy. Their chants grew even louder, echoing across the plains, surpassing the explosions above their heads.

But Oliver didn’t let that distract him, pushing even more mana in his eyes in what he knew was becoming a reckless move. Sir Leonard, almost impossible to see now amidst his radiance, became a streak of light. With a final, powerful thrust, he crashed into the ship's shields.

The impact was catastrophic; the shields shattered in a blinding explosion, creating a massive shockwave that flattened the vegetation for miles around.

The Revolutionary Army remained untouched, protected under Lady Jean's shields despite the devastation.

Oliver felt a sharp pain in his eyes and touched his face, only to find his fingertips stained with blood. The strain of witnessing such overwhelming power was too much, and he had the presence of mind to dispel the enhancement, hoping to prevent permanent damage. He didn’t want to explain to Sir Leonard why he needed to be given his sight back.

A dizzy feeling took him then, and Oliver knew he really had exaggerated. It would be very embarrassing to pass out now, not even having been involved in the fighting, rather than during the multiple times he was in battle, especially since it was near Lady Jean, but his mana didn’t answer his calls for a pick-me-up.

Even with his vision dimming, he saw the airship tilting, its once-majestic form now a falling wreck, lacking its main mast. Small figures fell alongside it, and his last thought was that the Air Force must have been cheated out on the safety spells.

“This has to be the most embarrassing thing I’ve ever seen. Honestly, you might have to take a ship to Brander and change your name.”

Oliver rolled his eyes. Yes, he was pretty annoyed with himself for going into Mana Down to power a sensory-enhancing spell. He had already been told off enough.

Hector’s ribbing only served to make him more annoyed with himself, though he decided to take it in good humor. He had been pretty foolish, after all.

“I heard they put great importance in how men dress and wear their hair there. It’s probably best if you don’t come, or you’ll cause a diplomatic incident.” He replied, earning a snort.

Hector was surprisingly able to take what he dished. He was a good sort.

Still, that didn’t make the excitement he felt at what he had witnessed fade one bit. An electric sort of energy had taken the camp during his forced convalescence. While Oliver had been forced to stay in the infirmary longer than he needed, he hadn’t minded too much, having spent his time speaking with the rank and file soldiers who came by to get their injuries looked at. Well, that and weathering Hector’s wit.

The victory against the Air Force, especially the stunning aerial duel between Sir Leonard and the King Vasily Class airship, had lifted the revolutionaries’ mood from assured and expectant to beyond ecstatic. The Captains had to hold the men back from directly charging at Treon’s walls lest they be turned into red mist by the towering wards that had been raised soon after the airship fell.

Oliver still hadn’t been able to talk with his mentor beyond a short exchange of words after he woke up, but he suspected he knew what he was thinking.

Now that the biggest obstacle left was gone, the only thing holding them back from a direct assault was the wait for the intrigue behind the city’s walls to bear fruit.

Dominance had already been established. The Navy—which could rightly call the shots now that it was the only public force left—hadn’t made a single foray out of the harbor. The might of the revolution was uncontested. This was why, when everyone was expecting Sir Leonard to lead the charge, he would strike from the back.

Chapter 78 - Churning Waters - Colin Masters 1

Being promoted to Rear Admiral had once been Colin’s greatest wish, and he had worked himself to the bone for the last four years to achieve it.

The youngest non-royal commodore in Hetnia’s naval history, he had looked primed for the jump to the upper ranks of the Navy. Unfortunately, his status as the son of a minor noble who had lost his lands during the Incursion made the last step almost impossible.

Colin hadn’t given up. He had even volunteered himself to brief Count Luster-Treon, a much-dreaded duty considered the worst punishment for overly ambitious officers. He had done it to show Admiral Strymiel Dunster that he was dedicated to the Navy in soul and flesh.

He was the only officer to brave the Great Slitherer even while Leonard Weiss marched on Treon and all others trembled in their barracks. He deserved to be promoted.

And yet. And yet, watching the new medal glinting off his chest tasted bitter.

He hadn’t achieved this through his merits. No, the reason he was finally being elevated to his rightful place was that the previous Rear Admiral, whose name Colin wouldn’t even repeat in his mind because the wave of disgust it caused still threatened to overwhelm him, had taken a sloop alongside his household and fled into the night, having deliberately created an opening in the bay's patrolling schedule to allow his escape.

Since there couldn't be confusion among the ranks during an ongoing siege, and any other replacement the Admiral could find within the city wouldn’t be received well by the men, Colin had become the newest Rear Admiral.

And with that, I also got the responsibility of pulling us out of this damn mess. We should have evacuated Treon immediately after Locke lost, as I said. Instead, I got a reprimand, and now we don’t even have the Air Force.

Just thinking of how much higher his chances would have been had the city still had its airship and Griffin Knights made Colin clench his jaw in anger.

Instead, the idiot Count ordered them to fight for their honor and they died a miserable death, cementing Weiss’ fame as an invincible Hero forevermore.

Admittedly, Colin hadn’t thought it possible for a single man to face a Corp of Griffin Knights, much less a King Vasily Class Airship. Those were meant to be army destroyers.

He wouldn't have believed the reports if he hadn’t observed its fall with his own eyes from atop the Magic Tower alongside Archmage Laurentis and Guildmistress Manita.

But the two people who had the power to change his current woes had confirmed the loss. Thus, he now found himself in the enviable position of planning an evacuation without looking like he was planning one, lest his superior rip his new medal off and give the rank to someone sufficiently suicidal.

At least the mages and the adventurers were more reasonable than the admiral.

They had no intention of abandoning the city, not seeing themselves as direct combatants. They had also received assurances from the revolutionaries, through mysterious means, that they would be allowed to continue their business as long as they didn’t oppose the takeover and freed the few slaves they had.

Hearing that a rebel officer of high enough rank had infiltrated the city had been more of a shock than it should have been. Colin already knew they operated with surprising competence. That they would predict the Count would order the war wards to be cast once the Air Force lost shouldn’t have been shocking.

By all rights, he should have arrested the two then and there, but he was an Expert, and they were Masters. He would have died before he could even call upon his mana.

Colin kept thinking about his situation as he left his new home, a delightful townhouse on the edge of Treon’s noble district, where it faded into the trade neighborhoods. Once, he would have loved to live in such a place, but now it felt like a noose tightening around his neck. Remaining in the city was tantamount to suicide, and every new benefit heaped on his head made taking the right decision heavier; the emergency supplies weren't sufficient for the entire population, and the Revolutionaries outside were unlikely to wait long enough for Count Pollus to cross Hetnia and relieve the siege.

The streets of Treon bore an understandably tense atmosphere. People walked by furtively, their expressions tight with worry, only lingering long enough to complete the most necessary tasks. Mothers pulled their children along with hurried steps, eyes darting nervously. Dark looks were cast skyward where the glowing wards blotted out the sun, casting unnatural light. The normally bustling streets of the merchant district were quieter, filled with the anxious murmurs of a population on edge.

Colin couldn’t shake the weight of Guildmistress Merida’s words from his mind. "For once, it won't be the lowest to suffer." The formidable woman had said, and the statement stuck with him. He should have rightly taken offense to it, being a noble himself, though barely one according to many of his old colleagues, and being tasked with protecting the King’s order. But Colin knew better than to reprimand a Master for speaking their minds, especially when he depended on their goodwill and cooperation to come out of a difficult situation.

His feet took him through a longer route than usual, and he ended up detouring through the slums, concealing his presence with a spell.

The contrast between the last time he had been here on an escapade with his friends and now was stark. Crumbling buildings and poorly maintained infrastructure still remained, but the heavy air of oppression he had found last time was surprisingly missing. The poorest citizens and slaves went about their day with some worry—which was perfectly understandable, given the tight constraints on food the castle had imposed— and a strange undercurrent of hope.

They seemed less burdened by the siege than the wealthier inhabitants. Merida’s words kept ringing in his ears, and Colin realized they saw the coming revolution as a chance to better their lives, a prospect that had eluded them for so long under the current regime.

He watched a group of children playing in the dirt, their laughter incongruous with the tension in the city. Nearby, a mother patched her son’s tattered clothes while humming softly.

If he hadn’t seen an army of at least ten thousand men, and likely many more, camping outside, he wouldn’t have been able to understand the way the people here behaved.

Moving through the winding alleys, Colin observed the makeshift market stalls where vendors traded goods with what he recognized as quiet resilience. They were used to hardship, accustomed to scraping by with whatever they could find. The Revolution promised change, and it was a beacon of possibility for them. Whether that was true or not had no bearing on their hope. They knew how ugly life could be now and yearned for a change.

He had never spent much time thinking about it. His life had been a never-ending struggle to come out on top, and now that he had made it, he looked around and wasn’t sure it had been worth it.

No, I can’t think like that. I swore myself to the King’s service and will see it through. I must preserve as much of our fighting force as possible and evacuate the most important people. Then, I can start working on improving conditions. One problem at a time.

He walked through the people unnoticed, occasionally stopping to watch them go about their day. He saw a group of men huddled together, whispering plans for the future. Their eyes held a determination that was absent in the noble district.

Colin’s thoughts turned to the nobles he had left behind in their lavish homes, clinging to the old ways, blind to the world crumbling around them. They saw the Revolution as a threat, an end to their way of life. They couldn’t understand the desperate hope driving the people they had oppressed for so long.

He himself was guilty of this. He couldn’t understand the driving force behind this rebellion. He firmly believed that the Hero had to know that even with his personal might, he wouldn’t be able to stand up against the entirety of Haylich, much less of the nearby countries that held slavery as a major institution.

And yet, something had to be done. Some change was better than none for these people. The walk through the slums brought painful clarity to Colin’s mind. The Revolution was inevitable—it might have been delayed for longer without Weiss crushing the initial resistance, but it would have happened anyway.

The poorest wanted change, and they were willing to fight for it. Treon’s noble district might be filled with fear and denial, but there was a burning desire for a new beginning in the heart of the city's poverty.

That still doesn’t make what they are doing right. Killing innocent nobles, stealing their wealth, and taking untrained young men and women to the battlefield. Their cause might be just, but their methods are unacceptable.

Colin knew he had to act. Time was ticking, and the wards above wouldn’t hold forever. The Revolutionaries would breach the city’s defenses sooner or later, and when they did, it would be a massacre if they were still here. He had to find a way to convince the Admiral and the other officers to force an evacuation while there was still time.

He left, having learned what he needed, and hurried to the riverside, where the Navy barracks sat.

When Colin entered, the sailors greeted him warmly. They saw him as a more down-to-earth commander than the other officers. Many saluted him with genuine respect, offering words of encouragement he gratefully accepted. These people were his responsibility, and their trust in him fueled his determination to navigate the crisis ahead.

Walking through the white stone corridors, Colin finally entered his new office, which he still had trouble seeing as his. It was bare and utilitarian at the moment, and he would have loved to take his time to personalize it but put that aside for much more urgent matters.

His assistant awaited him, expression grim even as he saluted. "Rear Admiral," the young man began, "we've received several messages from merchants confirming the low supplies. We're running out of food and essential goods faster than anticipated.”

Colin nodded, already aware of the dire situation but knowing the importance of receiving confirmation for every piece of information. "Anything else?”

"The Admiral has requested your presence for a meeting," the assistant continued hesitantly. "It seems urgent.”

Colin suppressed a sigh. He had barely had time to settle into his role, and the demands were already piling up. "Very well. Let’s not keep the Admiral waiting.”

He left his office and made his way to the Admiral's quarters. The corridors buzzed with activity, sailors, and officers moving with purpose and urgency as they prepared for a possible confrontation.

Colin spent the short walk preparing himself for the blustering reception he knew awaited. Admiral Strymiel Dunster was a figure of excess in every sense. Arrogant and red-faced, the old man had layers of fat pushing from his uniform, and the overpowering scent of perfume barely masked the underlying odor of sweat. He was also an Expert, the lowest ranking Admiral in the Royal Fleet, and his equal in power.

The man’s office was much more opulent than Colin’s. Golden nautical equipment adorned the shelves, and rich tapestries depicting past naval battles hung on the walls.

"Rear Admiral," Dunster greeted him with a curt nod, barely looking up from his desk piled high with documents. “This afternoon after luncheon, we’ll meet with the Archmage and Guildmistress. We need to discuss their role in the city’s defense. Try not to embarrass yourself and prepare the information we’ll need.”

Colin nodded, keeping his expression neutral. "Understood, Admiral. I’ll be ready.”

Colin had already privately spoken with both Masters. They had made their positions clear and even hinted at contacts with the Revolution. The mages and adventurers were unlikely to risk their lives for a cause they didn’t believe in when they didn’t need to, and the Revolution’s promises of leniency had swayed many.

But the two also represented a way for Colin to acquire the authority he needed to do what was necessary.

He saluted and left, ready to fulfill his duty.

Chapter 79 - Ambition is a False Idol - Colin Masters 2

Walking behind the Admiral through the high district’s streets, Colin carefully schooled his expression. He had an arrangement with the Guildmistress and the Archmage, but things could rapidly change if Dunster behaved differently from what he expected. He’d have to think quickly to salvage the situation then. He was also under no misunderstanding about the two Masters’ loyalty. They cared only about themselves and their organizations; he was just a convenient pawn.

Not that I think he’ll do anything but bluster and threaten them once they explain how untenable the situation is. His appointment came only because he’s the Count’s distant relative. He owes too much to the man to go against his stated orders to prepare for a siege, even if I believe if he had pushed, the wimp would have evacuated. They are feeding off each other's arrogance.

The chosen meeting ground was an elegant tea house furnished with powerful privacy enchantment independent of the Tower. It was considered a neutral place, which was necessary with how tense things were likely to get. The Admiral was known to enjoy the place’s food and so only saw it as a minor bribe. Business as usual.

They left the contingent of sailors Dunster had Colin assemble behind at the entrance, alongside the two shady men from the adventurer’s guild and the singular scholarly mage resting below a tree’s shade.

The Admiral already didn’t like him, considering him a mouthy, up-jumped peasant. If he expressed even a vague distaste for anything he had decided, Dunster would double down and call for an entire Corp.

He had been tempted to risk it exactly to achieve such a result, but he’d been afraid his hand would show. Even the Admiral would get suspicious if he was too obvious.

The sailors’ presence was a foolish show of force meant to intimidate the two Masters. Colin knew it would fail but didn’t comment. He had selected them to achieve a different mission.

They were greeted at the entrance by an elegant maid, who bowed with a modest smile and silently led them away from the main room, up a flight of stairs, and to a private area.

Golden runes ran along the length of the wood and marble corridor, and Colin knew just enough to recognize several that were intended to silence, comfort, and obscure. No one could listen in.

The room was draped in deep purple and silver, House Luster-Treon’s colors, with plush seating and ornate decorations. The scent of lavender and sandalwood lingered in the air, maintained fresh thanks to extensive aeration enchantments that cost as much to maintain as it took to feed a family of five for a year, adding to the tea house's reputation for luxury.

Archmage Laurentis and Guildmistress Manita were already seated, but stood up to greet them once they entered. Laurentis, with his thin frame and long white hair, cut a solemn figure. His long nose and pale skin gave him a venerable air, and his luxurious robe shimmered subtly, hinting at the protective enchantments woven into its fabric.

Manita, in contrast, exuded raw strength. Her medium-length dark hair framed her brown-skinned, leathery face, and her lilac eyes glinted with fierce intelligence. Her powerful physique and confident demeanor were accentuated by the practical yet finely crafted leather armor she wore even in the most luxurious establishment in Treon. She was not one to conform, and the staff was wise enough to not bother her about the dress code.

"Admiral Dunster, Rear Admiral Masters," Laurentis greeted them with a slow, ponderous nod. His voice was measured, giving the appearance of deliberately choosing every word, though Colin always felt it a bit condescending. "Please, join us.”

Manita offered a curt nod, her demeanor more direct. “It's good to see you both. Sit down; we have much to discuss.”

Given how powerful the two were and how significant their influence on the city was, the initial exchange was quite cordial. But Colin wasn’t surprised. They wouldn’t have gotten to where they were if they couldn’t play ball when needed. They weren’t noble born, after all.

They briefly went through the ritual exchanges of trust, remembering the times they had worked together and reaffirming their loyalty to the King. Once that was done, Dunster wasted no time steering the conversation towards their defenses. "Despite the losses of our Air Force, the Navy remains strong," he declared, his voice booming with a confidence that bordered on arrogance. "We can supply the city for a prolonged siege. All we need to do is hold out until Count Pollus arrives. Together, we can crush the rebels.”

Colin kept his expression neutral, though inwardly, he cringed at the Admiral's overconfidence. He glanced at Laurentis and Manita, noticing their shared look of exasperation.

The Archmage sighed, a sound that seemed to carry the weight of centuries and was sure to have sent countless pupils cringing in embarrassment.

Dunster was too self-absorbed to be affected.

"Admiral, the power arrayed outside our walls is beyond formidable. The Revolutionaries have amassed a force capable of breaching our wards, even without considering what happened with the airship. Their magical and martial prowess is beyond anything I've faced before, and I can guarantee Leonard Weiss still hasn’t shown everything he is capable of.”

Dunster sputtered, eyes wide as if he had not expected the possibility of his line being followed without complaint. Well used to the man’s episodes, Colin tensed for an outburst, but the Guildmistress interrupted before he could get started.

She leaned forward, her lilac eyes piercing like a stalking cat. "Holding out for Pollus is a gamble we cannot afford. The wards are strong, yes, but they are not invincible. If the Revolutionaries breach them, it will be a bloodbath. The Great Slitherer will become a river of blood. We must consider all options to preserve the city, including evacuation.”

Dunster's face reddened, and his jowls quivered with indignation. "Evacuation? You expect me to abandon Treon? Our wards are the finest in Hetnia! They will hold, Count Pollus will arrive, and we will crush these rebels. We have the might of the Navy and the loyalty of the people. Or do I have reason to doubt you?”

This was the most dangerous junction. Colin would have preferred not exposing himself, but sometimes, the moment had to be caught.

“Admiral, I don’t believe the two venerable Masters are implying anything of the sort. Rather, they just want to ensure that the leadership will be preserved in the remote case of a breach as we await to be relieved.”

Laurentis hummed as if acknowledging a great point, “Our duty is to preserve the King’s order. Whether through a dedicated battle or an orderly retreat, we still do not know, but believe me when I say the wards will not hold forever. I have observed the protections cast around the rebels during the last battle, and I can confirm without a shadow of a doubt that it was a Champion’s work.”

Watching the Hero go head-to-head with an airship had been enough to convince Colin he needed to go through with a plan he would have normally never attempted. But it had been the Archmage’s stunned expression as he tried to understand the protections around the rebels that had cemented his belief in an evacuation. A single Champion was already beyond what Treon could handle. A second was too much, especially one specialized in wards.

Dunster, however, refused to yield. His face turned a deep shade of crimson as he slammed a meaty fist onto the table, making the delicate porcelain cups rattle despite the enchantments. "Cowards! The lot of you! We have the finest Navy, the strongest wards, and the people's loyalty! Your defeatist talk borders on treason. You will do your jobs, or I will have you arrested and tried as traitors!”

The room fell into a tense silence. Colin could see the strain on Laurentis and Manita's faces. They had expected resistance, but the Admiral's intransigence was proving more stubborn than anticipated.

The old man tried again, calm but firm. “Admiral, you must understand there is no path to victory for us as things stand. We must come to terms with the Revolutionary Army to preserve Treon. If you were to take the flotilla to Garva’s ports, it would be kept intact while the city was under occupation. We can retake it once the Kingdom musters its real strength.”

"Our priority should be to save as many lives as possible and ensure that the city's fall does not become a massacre. The fleet can provide a safe haven for the nobility and key personnel. We will remain and negotiate the terms of occupation to keep the people safe.” Manita repeated slowly, as if talking with a particularly dim-witted child.

Dunster's eyes narrowed, his mouth twisting into a sneer. "Negotiate? You would have us grovel before these rebels? Never. I will not abandon this city. The fleet stays, and we’ll fight for every inch if they breach the wards.”

In a way, Colin could respect the Admiral’s stubbornness. He seemed to genuinely not want to abandon his post, even though he had only gotten there through connections. But it was the wrong choice, so he spoke up again in a conciliatory tone, knowing that the man was already too far gone but needing to keep up the appearances up to the last second, “Perhaps ordering a retreat is too hasty, but there could be merit in preparing for the eventuality.”

But Dunster was too far gone. His eyes blazed with fury as he pointed a trembling finger at Colin. "Enough! Rear Admiral, fetch the squadron of sailors. Arrest these two for treason.”

Colin hesitated only a moment. He had expected this, but the finality of the moment still struck him. He looked at Laurentis and Manita, their eyes locked onto his, silently urging him to act. This would change everything, but his decision was already made.

"No, Admiral," Colin replied, his voice steadier than he expected. "You are endangering the city and its people. I cannot follow that order.”

Before Dunster could react, Colin slashed the air with a muttered incantation. Water surged from his hands, swirling around the Admiral and binding him tightly. The fat man struggled, his face turning a deeper shade of puce, but the spell held firm. Colin had settled on [Riptide’s Grip] precisely because it could only be dispelled through overwhelming force or deep attunement with the currents, which the man lacked despite his position. It felt poetic.

"You dare?" Dunster spat, his voice a mix of rage and disbelief. His mana sparked, and angry winds whipped around him but were rapidly absorbed into the watery ropes, leaving him out of breath, "Release me at once!”

“I’m placing you under arrest for endangering critical assets and blindly leading your men to their deaths. You will be treated according to your rank and released to the care of Duke Garva or someone of equal rank. Do not resist further, or I will have to be rougher.” Colin said frostily.

The two masters watched silently, with something akin to approval. Colin didn’t doubt they would sell him out should the need arise, but for the moment, they were all conspirators, bound to each other.

“The die is cast, then. The fleet is yours, Rear Admiral. I wish you luck. You’ll need it.” Laurentis’ words seemed oddly final, but Colin had no time to decode them. Instead, he opened a window and gestured for the men down below to enter the building. He had a navy to take over and a retreat to organize.

A few seconds later, he motioned to the guards marching up the stairs to enter, unheeding the maid’s protests. "Take the Admiral to the holding cells. Ensure he is well treated but secure.”

Another man came rushing down the corridor, looking like he was ready for a fight. Luckily for what had to be the establishment's manager, he was spared Colin’s wrath as the Archmage finally stood up and walked over to intercept him, gesturing to leave it to him.

Light help me if my coup has to be slowed down by a butler angry at the mess I’m making in his teahouse.

Outside, the sailors formed a tight group, holding the still-bound Admiral in the middle, now too exhausted to struggle thanks to Colin’s spell.

“Let’s go,” Colin ordered, leading the men away, sparing only a glance at the castle. If he wanted to secure the nobles, he’d need to act quickly before word trickled down about his takeover.

But first, the barracks.

Chapter 80 - The Subtlety of an Orc - Neer 4

It wasn’t often that Neer had to change her opinion about someone. Usually, a first impression was enough to determine whether they were a worthy person or not. If they weren’t, she ignored them, only cataloging their actions in case they became dangerous later on.

She had initially dismissed Damien’s little chit as a vapid girl with dreams of being a spy and a foolish crush on a viper in human form. But a few days later, having observed the girl manipulate her way through Treon’s seedy underbelly, Neer had to reassess her first impression.

Yes, she still harbored a hopeless attraction for a man married to the cause of elevating the Hero to godhood, and yes, she cringed and shied away from hard labor. Still, the way she ran rings around many experienced criminals and even convinced several key castle staff members to switch sides was something to behold.

Watching her from the shadows of a nearby alley under the castle’s curtain wall, using a [Cloak of Invisibility] crafted by Archmage Franklin, Neer couldn’t help but admire the girl.

“You do understand that it is all going to come out, right? Everything the Count ever did, everything we stood silent witnesses to. The Revolution is not known to be merciful and kind to those who engaged in slavery, and we won’t have another chance like this.” Eleanor pushed, stepping closer to the older maid, who, despite her higher rank, shrank back, intimidated.

Neer had seen the girl use good manners, coyly suggesting how much life would be better to a servant who was often the target of abuse, and now much more aggressive tactics. If vicar Damien hadn’t been who he was, she could have actually fit next to him.

“This is treason,” the woman whispered in shock, but she didn’t defend her employer. As far as Neer knew, this was supposed to be the second highest-ranking maid in the castle, lower only than the Head Maid, who was unshakably loyal and thus had to be circumvented.

“Is it treason to look out for our lives? You know the Count and his band of buffoons won’t help us. We have all seen that they are already preparing to abandon the city. Do you genuinely think they’ll take us along when space on their ships is limited? No, they’ll rely on the sailors until they reach Garva and buy new slaves. Even the Head Maid will be left here to languish, despite what she longs for.”

The best accusation is the truth. She knows she will be abandoned, no matter the decades of service she devoted to this household.

The old woman wavered for a moment longer before sighing, shoulders slumping in defeat. Neer allowed herself a fanged grin while Eleanor kept her expression placid, gracious in victory.

Then, she turned around and motioned with her head that it was okay to come out, and the three dozen men she had recruited to the Revolution came out of hiding, following her lead.

The old maid gasped at the sight and clutched her skirt as Neer stopped to loom over her. "Open the way to the castle," she demanded, her voice low and menacing.

The maid hesitated, glancing nervously between Neer and Eleanor. She had been around long enough to know there was no coming back from agreeing. The decision she was about to make would seal her fate.

With a final, resigned look at Eleanor, she nodded and moved to the servant's entrance. She placed her hand on a small, discreet panel, and with a soft glow, the door clicked open, revealing the dimly lit corridor leading into the heart of the castle.

"Thank you," Eleanor said softly, her voice carrying a note of genuine gratitude. The maid's expression flickered with fear and relief as she stepped aside to let the revolutionaries pass, but she didn’t change her mind, which was all Neer cared about.

Now we just need to seize the count and hope Damien convinced the two codgers. He’s good, but they are the types to extract as many concessions as they can at the last second.

The corridor was damp and poorly maintained, showing just how relaxed the atmosphere had been and how much their subsequent losses had shocked everyone.

One would think they’d at least prepare for an evacuation after being under siege for days, but we had to hold their hands through it for things to start moving.

Inside the castle, the scene was one of chaotic urgency. Servants scurried about, their arms loaded with valuable items as they tried to follow the Count's increasingly frantic orders. Nervous tension loomed over everyone, and hurried footsteps echoed through the grand halls that had once hosted feasts and revelry.

Whenever Neer and her men were noticed, their presence caused the servants to stop and stare in stunned silence. The reality of the situation seemed to hit them all at once; the realization that the Revolution was not just an abstract threat outside but a tangible force that had breached the walls caused many to drop what they were holding in shock. The occasional guard they came across was dispatched off with ease, and they only needed to stop a few people from shouting for help, so stunned they were.

As they navigated the maze of corridors, Neer caught snippets of conversations, the whispered fears of the servants who understood just how precarious their situation was. These were the people most likely to suffer the consequences of their master’s actions.

At the same time, bellowed commands echoed through the castle, easily recognizable as the Count’s. He directed maids to take only his favorite things, instructed them to leave behind anything that didn’t hold personal significance to him, and reminded everyone, even in this dark moment, that their worth was insignificant compared to his possessions.

Neer set her jaw and drew on her increasingly short well of patience. She was gonna need it all not to kill the twerp.

They found him in a luxurious sitting room, surrounded by a collection of opulent furnishings and priceless artifacts. Ronald Luster-Treon lounged on a velvet chaise, a glass of expensive wine in hand, while a Commodore stood nearby, listening with a pained expression as the Count complained about the fuss and inconvenience.

"Why must everything be so complicated?" He whined, taking a long sip of his wine. “I don’t understand why I must choose. Just leave a few more sailors behind and make room for my heirlooms! Surely, the Admiral will understand.”

The Commodore nodded stiffly, clearly uncomfortable with the dismissive attitude. "Yes, sir, I will relay your concerns, but we must hurry. The ships are being prepared as we speak, and we must leave before the day’s end if we want to catch a current fast enough to take us to sea.”

The Count waved a dismissive hand, sloshing wine over the rim of his glass. "Yes, yes, just make sure everything is packed properly. I don't want any of my things to be broken by clumsy, dirty sailors.”

It was at that moment that Neer and her men stepped into the room. The complaints died on the foppish noble’s lips as he turned to see them, his eyes widening in shock.

"What is the meaning of this?" he sputtered, his voice rising in panic. "Who are you? What are you doing here?” Then he turned to the commodore, gesturing wildly, “Arrest them! What are you waiting for?!”

The man looked at the assembled force for a long time and deliberately placed his hand on his sword’s pommel. “Are you willing to negotiate?” he asked grimly. He was supposed to be in on the plan, but things could always go south, and Neer didn’t begrudge him his caution.

Still, she’d not be intimidated. She stepped forward, almost daring him to take the sword out. "An arrangement has already been agreed upon," she reminded him with a wry grin. ’Twas a tale as old as time that soldiers were not informed of the actual plans by their superiors. He might actually not know, after all. There's no need for anyone to die uselessly.”

The Commodore paused, weighing his options. His gaze flickered to his charge, then back to Neer. The Count's increasing panic was evident, but the man’s expression remained impassive. Finally, he nodded slowly. "Very well. I'll not throw my life away on a lost cause.”

"Good choice. Men, secure the Count.”

Ronald, realizing his commands were being ignored, shrieked in indignation. "How dare you! Do you know who I am? You will all pay for this!" He reached for a gold and ruby-encrusted sword on the mantle in a smooth movement that reminded everyone he wasn’t actually a weakling, but Neer moved with lightning speed before he could unsheathe it.

Her fist, glowing with purple flames, hit his face, sending him sprawling to the floor. The magical impact rendered him unconscious instantly, and the flames dissipated as quickly as they had appeared. He wasn’t bad, but she was just too good.

“Ah, that feels so good.” She grinned, ignoring the commodore’s pursed lips.

Hours later, the castle was under complete control of the Revolutionary forces despite the city below still being ignorant. This was possible only because the vast majority of the guards accepted the commodore’s command to stand down, and those few that didn’t were easily taken care of by the men Neer had brought along. After a long couple of hours during which she consolidated her grip and sent people to watch critical entrance points, she sat in the Count’s opulent office, enjoying the enchanted furniture more than she’d like to admit.

I might have to take this thing with me. I’m sure the Grand Marshal won’t begrudge me. I know he doesn’t like looting, but it’s not like anyone can eat this, and selling luxury items we can use to a foreign market feels like a waste.

She leaned back in the Count’s high-backed chair, surveying the room with satisfaction for a well-done mission. Her stature and behavior often led to people discounting her subterfuge abilities, but she could be surprisingly sneaky when she wanted to. Having captured a castle in the middle of an enemy city under siege should put any naysayer to rest.

A knock pulled her from her moment, and she called for the soldier outside to let the two people she last needed to convince in.

The door opened, and Archmage Laurentis and Guildmistress Manita entered.

“Let me be the first one to congratulate you on your takeover, my lady,” the old man said, taking a seat opposite her once she gestured for them to sit. “There seems to be nothing left to impede the plan.”

“The guards have been cooperative so far. They were shocked but didn’t make a big fuss once they realized how outnumbered they were. And the Rear Admiral has everything ready to set sail,” Manita added, giving her an appreciative look.

Neer let it slide, not feeling the need to reprimand a woman who was likely older than her grandmother and still looked like she was forty.

However, for all the good news the two brought, there was one thing that frustrated her. "I still don’t like that we had to let the Count go. He deserved to face justice here, not sail away to safety.”

Laurentis sighed, nodding in understanding. “I know, my lady. But sometimes, the needs of the many outweigh the need for personal satisfaction. If you had harmed the Count beyond what was strictly necessary,” and here he gave her a look to show he knew how much she had enjoyed punching the noble, “the City Watch would have been duty-bound to fight us to the last man. Their oaths would have compelled them, and the streets would have run red with blood.”

“It’s not often that cities fall without bloodshed. The people will see that you are not here to destroy but to build a better future. That will earn you far more loyalty than any battle ever could.” Manita’s words were reasonable, and Neer knew it was the correct stance. She just had a weakness when it came to poncy, arrogant nobles who thought they could get away with everything because of their birth.

“I understand. I will not jeopardize the operation to satisfy myself. The Grand Marshal’s orders take precedence over everything.” She responded, enjoying the way the two Masters squirmed. Yes, their support was irreplaceable to take the city without a long and bloody battle, but they had only come to terms with Damien and then her because they had witnessed what resulted from defiance.

Neer had no doubt both elders had plans upon plans in the work and probably contingencies on top of those to help the remaining loyalists stay hidden, but they had no idea what they were up against.

The Revolution would not be denied.

Chapter 81 - Is It Fair To Negotiate With Losers? - Leonard 31

Leonard didn’t often wonder what his family would think of him now. It wasn’t that he didn’t care, but he simply was too busy for idle speculation. Every day the army marched forth, he needed to be there to guide its path, protect it from mistakes that would have spelled an early end, and lift the red and gold standard of the Revolution up for everyone to see that change was inevitable.

But today, he spared a few minutes to think about his father. He hadn’t been a very complex man. Indeed, he was prone to fits of anger that burned out just as quickly as they came. He was never violent, but it was apparent emotional control wasn’t his forte.

Still, sometimes, he had sage advice to give. “It’s just when you think things are going well that life fucks you up. Never, ever take success for granted. Work for it until you have firmly grasped it, and even then, keep your guard up because the scavengers come out when you think it’s over.”

So, more to honor his father’s advice than out of any genuine belief that things would go wrong, Leonard kept his guard up. The consequences of failing here would be massive, and he couldn’t afford to start over again.

His trusty horse calmly trotted below him, enjoying the wind and the rustling grass. Around him, an honor guard of his greatest soldiers marched in a tight ring, scrutinizing every inch of the ground and sky, ready for anything.

It was all more for show than out of a need to protect him. Everyone supposed to come to the meeting knew Leonard alone would be more than enough to take Treon with force, but appearances had to be maintained.

The city’s towering walls painted a picturesque backdrop to what would surely be told in the history books as the first major victory of the Revolution. Taking Treon would not just put sixty thousand souls into Leonard’s hands but also complete the southern conquest. With it, the Serpent Sea belt was entirely taken, and he could turn his attention northward, with a self-sufficient base at his back to provide the supplies he’d need for the next phase.

The city’s wards flickered for a moment, and the gates opened, letting a contingent of local leaders out.

If Leonard had been more open to dishonor, he would have attacked then and there. Wards were not made to make exceptions, especially ancient ones like Treon’s. If he had attacked with a [Sunrise Crescent], he would have destroyed their stability, possibly without causing a catastrophic backlash.

But he decided to trust in his people. The few losses he had faced so far had taught him the necessity of having competent commanders to take the wheel when he was elsewhere, and he couldn’t cultivate any if he kept holding their hands.

He’d be ready for things to go tits up, but for the moment, he’d trust Damien and Neer to have done their jobs.

An old man led the local delegation, wearing the robes of an Archmage and having done his best to fit the stereotype. A staff of silver pine hung at his sides, close enough to act as a focus but far enough to make it understood he wasn’t expecting a fight. Behind him, the famed Merida the Giantslayer, Guildmistress of Treon and terror of the Eturian Plains, looked directly at him with the same hunger Leonard recognized in all warriors who desperately wanted to test themselves against the new power in the block. Luckily, she didn’t issue a challenge, though Leonard made a mental note to offer her a spar. Sometimes, that was all it took to earn a battle fanatic’s loyalty.

Behind them, at enough of a distance to signify their lower rank in the delegation, was a group of armed commanders dressed in the city watch’s uniform. They seemed quite downtrodden, but he couldn’t identify a spark of defiance.

Good. I trust Damien to direct the takeover and Neer to eliminate the most troublesome elements, but their belligerence would have been an annoying roadblock.

Lastly, riding horses clad in decorative trinkets and dressed in richer fabrics, came the economic powers of the city: wealthy merchants, guild masters of the various trades, and even what he thought might be a cartel leader fronting as an alchemist, if he remembered the briefing correctly.

No pavilion awaited them, as the two sides couldn’t agree on who should raise it and how to decide what spells would be used. Leonard could have forced the issue, but he didn’t feel the need. It was likely a small test meant to see how heavily he’d weigh in, but it didn’t matter. None of it would matter once his grip on the city was assured.

“The Grand Marshal of the Glorious Revolution! The Hero of the Light! The Slayer of the Void! Ace of the Air! All hail Sir Leonard Weiss!” One of the soldiers shouted once they came to a halt, startling a few of the merchants with the volume of his voice.

Leonard fought the embarrassed flush, still not entirely used to all the titles he had acquired recently. At least he wouldn’t have to conduct the talks himself. His presence had been deemed enough.

A shout of “Hail!” Resounded through the plain, and Treon’s delegation had the good sense to also greet him. He was supposed to be their new head of state, after all. It was not good for business to anger the person holding the big stick.

As the echo of the salutes faded, General Gerard Dortmund stepped forward, his bearing as calm and steady as always. He was a man of few words, but those words were always chosen with care, and the gathered representatives knew enough of his fame to take him very seriously.

“Welcome,” Gerard began, stilling any lingering murmurs. He met the eyes of each representative in turn, ensuring they all felt involved. “We’ve gathered here today to discuss the terms under which Treon will join the Revolution. But first, I must ask—do you all come in good faith?”

There was a brief silence as the assembled representatives exchanged glances. It was an old ritual not often used in these times, but that was mostly because Haylich’s cities hadn’t been put under siege in a long while.

Archmage Laurentis was the first to respond. “We do. Our hearts and minds are true,” he said firmly, dispelling any lingering doubt in his followers. “We understand the stakes and the need for a peaceful resolution.”

Merida the Giantslayer also affirmed her willingness, though her eyes were still locked on Leonard. The other members of the delegation followed suit, some with eager nods, others more hesitant. The merchants and guild leaders, who had the most to lose in any prolonged conflict, looked particularly eager to avoid a fight.

“Good,” Gerard rumbled. “Then let us begin.”

The Archmage, Guildmistress, and Gerard took their places at the center of the gathering while the rest of the delegation formed a loose circle around them. There was some lingering tension in the air, understandable as the locals had no idea if the basic framework that had been given to them would be respected, but it was underlined with a shared understanding: the time for posturing was over. The Revolution had won, and they could only haggle so much.

Gerard opened the negotiations with the most pressing demand of the Revolution. “Treon must come entirely under Revolutionary rule,” he stated clearly. “This must be clear to everyone, and there cannot be any doubt of our supremacy. Its people must be finally released from the tyranny of the old regime. All slaves will be freed, effective immediately.”

The Archmage nodded, his expression one of grave understanding. “We anticipated this, and we agree. The practice of slavery is an abomination, and it’s long past time that Treon ends it. However,” he added, raising a hand before Gerard could speak, “we ask that the transition be handled with care. Many of those who will be freed have no means of supporting themselves, and we need assurances that they will not be abandoned to their fate.”

Is this old man really trying to play the abolitionist with us? Light, he has some balls.

To be honest, Leonard was more amused than angry. It took some courage to stare down a decorated General who had led an army through a dozen battles and freed over a hundred thousand slaves and tell him he needed assurances they wouldn’t be abandoned.

Knowing Gerard, he likely agreed but kept a perfect poker face. “The Revolution will provide for them. As we have done for all the people we have freed, we will establish systems to ensure they are fed, housed, and given opportunities to earn their livelihoods according to their Blessings.”

Once that point was agreed, and a soldier had written down the terms on an enchanted roll of parchment, the Guildmistress spoke next. “We also need to discuss the city’s businesses. Treon’s economy is its lifeblood, and we cannot afford to disrupt it. We ask that you allow the merchants and guilds to continue operating as they have, without interference. Adventurers should be free to hunt monsters and sell their loot without undue tax. We understand that a contribution might be needed in times of war, but we ask you to think in the long term. A flourishing economy will provide much more to your coffers than a dried-out husk.”

It was a surprisingly cogent request from a woman with the fame of being a battle maniac, especially in a world where economics was little more than an obscure field of study. Still, it aligned with what had been their modus operandi so far.

Gerard looked to the Archmage and the Guildmistress, then turned to Leonard, who had remained silent but observant throughout the discussion. After a brief exchange of looks, Leonard gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod.

“We agree,” Gerard said, turning back to the delegation. “Businesses will be left alone. We have no interest in disrupting commerce or harming the livelihoods of Treon’s people. However,” he added, his tone frigid, “we will not tolerate any attempts to undermine the Revolution or the new order. Those who refuse to adapt and contribute their fair share will face the consequences.”

There was a moment of silence as the weight of his words settled over the gathered leaders. The merchants shifted uncomfortably but nodded, understanding that resistance would only lead to ruin.

Merida, who had likely encountered much scarier beings in her career, leaned forward, undaunted. “One last point. No one who doesn’t volunteer should be forced to work or fight for the army. The people of Treon are not soldiers and should not be treated as such unless they wish for it.”

Leonard shifted minutely on his horse, allowing a tiny portion of his aura to manifest.

Merida flinched back, and Laurentis paled dramatically. The other delegates looked ready to pass out, holding their breath in an instinctive reaction to a threat they couldn’t comprehend.

Message received, Leonard pulled his mana back in.

“We have no intention to massively conscript the citizens at this moment, but we reserve the right to decide on military matters on our own. We will tolerate no interference on this.” Gerard replied, unaffected by the wave of terror that had gone through the locals.

No one dared to raise a complaint after that.

One would think that the army could march into the city as soon as the agreement was signed, but things weren’t so simple. First, a route had to be planned for each corps since the castle wasn’t big enough to host everyone, and the local barracks needed to be checked over for possible traps.

Secondly, the Security Forces required some time to establish a cordon around the planned path to ensure no one would be foolish enough to try anything.

Lastly, the sprawling revolutionary camp had to be broken so that they could move to more permanent allocations.

Eventually, after several hours of waiting, the signal was given. Leonard, heading the now massive army and surrounded by an honor guard ten times as big as the previous one, decked in the official uniform, urged his horse toward the open gates.

As soon as he stepped in, a wall of sound hit him.

Chapter 82 - Lunch Is A Battle - Colin Masters 3

Waiting in a luxurious sitting room with dedicated staff ready to take care of his every need, he should have felt better than this. Since stepping foot in Cralin’s Rest, Garva’s closest major port to Hetnia, Colin had been treated exactly as a man of his rank should.

The local Baron even gave him face by personally coming down to the docks to greet him and take over the hosting of Count Luster-Treon and the Admiral. His men had been given leave to use the local garrison’s supplies and granted decent quarters to stay while they waited for Duke Garva or a representative of his to deal with this mess.

Technically, Colin was supposed to report directly to Garva’s Admiral, one Yonder Garva, but since the man was the Duke’s brother and was known to only act with his express approval, he had cut the middlemen out and directly contacted the real power in the region.

Colin knew it’d be difficult to properly convey the reasons for his mutiny. Admiral Dunster was sure to speak against him and had likely already started poisoning every ear at his disposal, but Duke Garva was known to be a just and unfeeling man. He had a reputation for using every weapon in his arsenal to hold the western border against the barbarians and had gone so far as to redeem convicted criminals if the situation called for it.

That, more than a strategic closeness, had been why he had chosen to sail here.

If there was anyone with sufficient authority to pardon him who would listen, it would be Duke Garva.

But that didn’t mean he expected to be treated as a high noble during his wait. He had even prepared a tent for his use should the local Baron refuse to host him for fear of the Admiral's wrath!

All that being treated this well did was fuel Colin’s paranoia, which he realized wasn’t exactly a good state of mind to be in when he was finally supposed to meet the Duke—this morning, to be precise— but he couldn’t help it.

Word had come the previous evening, while he was eating his supper alone in the dining room of his assigned quarter under the too-watchful eyes of the Baron’s servants, that the Duke had arrived in the city.

It was late enough that a meeting wasn’t likely, but Colin had insisted a bath be drawn so he could clean up should he be called to answer for his actions.

As an exasperated butler had told him, the Duke had not sent for him, but that hadn’t stopped Colin from spending the night awake, pacing back and forth in his bedroom.

After another bath that morning, a messenger arrived bearing a single man with a bloodied sword between two rocks as a standard, which identified him as belonging to the ducal household. The messenger invited Colin to luncheon with the Duke.

Which led to the current situation. Him, forcing his nerves down and actively stopping his legs from bouncing with anxiety, in an empty, opulent sitting room.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity but was likely little more than half an hour, a maid entered the room, bowing demurely. “Rear Admiral, the Duke will see you now if you’ll follow me.” And with that, she turned around and left, her footsteps making no sound on the marble floor.

Colin hurried to follow her, his longer legs allowing him to catch up quickly. He nervously adjusted his uniform and checked his medals but did not ask the woman if he looked good. In his experience, they never answered honestly.

The maid led Colin through a series of lavishly decorated hallways adorned with intricate tapestries and paintings depicting past victories and coastal landscapes. The Baron’s villa was almost unimaginably rich, showing just how different life was in Garva. Even minor nobles held wealth that only the highest in Hetnia could dream of.

As they approached the garden, a flowery scent grew stronger, mingling with the salt-tinged breeze wafting in from the nearby sea.

Finally, they stepped out into the sunlight, and Colin found himself in a meticulously maintained garden. Roses of every color bloomed in organized beds, their petals gleaming with dew. A long table had been set under a canopy of ivy-covered trellises, set with fine porcelain and gleaming silverware. The dishes alone likely cost as much as the townhouse he had been so proud of, but it was the two men seated at the table who commanded Colin’s attention.

Duke Garva was exactly as Colin had seen in his textbooks at the naval academy, if a bit older—stern, with salt-and-pepper hair that framed a face marked by years of command. His muscular frame was imposing even in repose, and his surprising height only added to the air of authority he exuded. He sat straight-backed in his chair—one that Colin noticed was significantly more ornate and taller than the two others at the table— his brow furrowed in what seemed to be a permanent expression of severity. There was a handsomeness to him, but the unyielding nature of his gaze overshadowed it.

Beside him, Dunster twitched slightly at Colin’s arrival, his jaw tightening. The Admiral’s eyes were sharp with distrust, but he remained seated, his hands clasped tightly on the table. Colin had expected worse, given that Dunster had tried to attack him several times during his captivity, and the man’s restrained posture now suggested he was barely holding back the impulse to do so again, but somehow, he refrained.

Colin approached the table with deliberate calm, feeling once more like a recruit being punished for something not his fault. He greeted both men with stiff politeness. "Your Grace, Admiral, thank you for seeing me.”

Duke Garva nodded curtly, indicating the chair opposite him. "Rear Admiral Masters, sit.”

A butler he hadn’t noticed stepped forward and smoothly pulled Colin’s chair back. He sat down, maintaining a composed expression even as his heart raced. The tension wasn’t overt; no indication of this being anything but a formal meal had been given, but to Colin, this luncheon would be the most important test he had ever taken.

The first course was brought out by silent, efficient servants, who only ever spoke to explain the dish and left with the stealth of an Expert rogue—a fine, cold vegetable soup garnished with herbs and served in delicately painted bowls. The Duke motioned for them to begin eating, and Colin followed suit, carefully sipping the chilled broth. The flavors were subtle and refined, but his mind was too preoccupied to appreciate them fully.

“I trust your accommodations were sufficiently adequate, Masters?” The Duke asked after dabbing his mouth.

“Absolutely, Your Grace. The Baron was a gracious host.”

"Good." The Duke’s eyes bore into him, assessing. “As news from Hetnia is becoming scarcer by the day, I’m curious to hear about the Revolution and this Leonard Weiss. Your actions were... unconventional, to say the least. But I’d like to understand why you felt they were necessary.”

And there it is. He’s giving me a chance to explain. I almost expected to be thrown in a dungeon and be left there to languish forever, but I shouldn’t relax yet. I need to convince him without pushing too hard, or the polite tone might disappear. It’s my best protection at the moment.

Colin took a moment to compose his thoughts. He knew that honesty was his best chance here, especially since the Duke was a known Master with decades of political experience. He’d be able to tell the truth from a lie or misdirection in a second, even if Dunster wasn’t there to act as counterfactual. "Leonard Weiss is unlike any foe I’ve ever encountered. The power he wields is beyond what I thought possible, to put it mildly. I witnessed him single-handedly bring down a King Vasily Airship. The man is a force of nature, Your Grace. To stand against him with the resources we had would have been suicide.” This was the riskiest sell, paradoxically. Duke Garva’s family had held the Death Pass against impossible odds for centuries. Would he understand?

The Duke’s expression didn’t change, but Colin could see the gears turning behind his eyes. He then turned to Admiral Dunster. "And what is your assessment, Admiral?”

Dunster, who had remained silent until now, glanced at Colin before speaking. His voice was tight with barely suppressed anger. "I can confirm the Rear Admiral’s account, Your Grace. Weiss is very dangerous. But that does not justify abandoning one’s post.”

Colin almost let out a sound of surprise. He had been expecting stiff resistance to everything he said, but the man he considered a wasteful wretch acted like a proper soldier.

Is it just because the Duke doesn’t tolerate lying and acting out? Or is he preparing something to surprise me?

Unfortunately, there were no apparent answers to his questions, so Colin decided to just be ready for anything.

Duke Garva’s gaze returned to Colin, but his tone remained neutral. "And yet you did just that. From what I’ve seen, you’re not a fool, Masters. You know the consequences.”

Colin met the Duke’s eyes squarely. "I do, Your Grace. But I believed then, as I do now, that it was the only way to preserve the lives of my men and the Navy’s strength so that we could organize an operation to destroy the rebels. Weiss’s power is too great to be met head-on with the forces we had, not to speak of the army he brought along. I chose what I believed was the only sensible path.”

The second course arrived, interrupting the conversation briefly as the servants placed the plates before them. Succulent and rich hammerclam steak was served, paired with superior algae sauté—a delicacy from the deep seas Colin had only tasted once and still remembered fondly.

He noticed the Admiral’s faint grimace as the Duke’s preferred local wine was poured, but Dunster kept his thoughts to himself.

They ate quietly for a few moments, though Colin remained tense, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Duke Garva finally broke the silence, his tone still unreadable. "And what of the city now? What have you done to ensure the city's security under Weiss’ control?”

Colin set down his fork, sensing this was a crucial moment. More than strictly adhering to protocol or insubordination—for which there would surely be a punishment, but might be lighter than expected—the man seemed to care about outcomes. "The city is safe, for now. Weiss has shown himself to be as much a strategist as a warrior. He contacted the Archmage and Guildmistress to set up a bloodless takeover, which is what convinced me to go through with it. Treon was already his, but this way, I was able to prevent a massacre.”

The Duke leaned back slightly, digesting his words. "And you still believe that allowing him to take over without a fight was the correct choice?”

"I do," Colin said firmly. "It was the only choice that offered any hope of retaking the city. Weiss was unstoppable with our limited means, Your Grace. I saw no other way.”

The rest of the courses were then served as the Duke thought about what Colin had said—an array of fine cheeses followed by the peculiar and unsettling Living Beehive, a delicacy that buzzed faintly with life as they ate it with spoons. The wine continued to flow, though Colin noticed that Dunster merely sipped at his glass, clearly not enjoying the Duke’s favored sour vintage.

Colin felt a small glimmer of hope as the meal drew to a close. The Duke had listened, and despite the tension, there had been no outright condemnation. He believed he had made a convincing case. Just as he was beginning to relax, Duke Garva casually gestured with his hand.

Colin barely had time to register the movement before he felt an invisible force binding his hands and feet. He struggled instinctively, but the bonds were unyielding. A suppressing collar was fastened around his neck, cutting off his access to any magical abilities. Panic surged through him, and he tried to stand up, but his limbs failed him.

He slumped in defeat, realizing resistance was futile.

Admiral Dunster’s laughter rang out, loud and mocking. "Look at you, Masters. This is the only possible consequence of mutiny. Did you really think you'd get away with it?”

Colin stared at the ground, his mind reeling. He had known the risks, but he had hoped…

"Enough," Duke Garva's voice cut through Dunster's laughter like a knife. The Admiral fell silent, though a smirk still played on his lips.

Duke Garva turned his cold gaze to Dunster. "You wanted to retake Treon, did you not, Admiral?”

Dunster straightened, all traces of amusement vanishing. "Yes, Your Grace. With respect, allowing Weiss to hold the city is madness. He is poised to win against Pollus now, and if he does, Hetnia will fall.”

The Duke’s eyes hardened further. "The King has decreed this conflict to be an internal matter within Hetnia. We are to observe, not interfere.”

"That’s insanity," Dunster protested. "Weiss is a threat to the entire kingdom! If he consolidates his power—“

"Enough," Garva interrupted, his voice icy. "The King has his reasons. If Weiss succeeds, it will allow him to cleanse Hetnia thoroughly when he retakes control. Do not forget your place.”

Dunster's face reddened with shame, and he cringed back at the Duke's coldly furious look. "Yes, Your Grace," he muttered, lowering his eyes.

As his vision faded to black, Colin's last sight was Admiral Dunster’s humiliated expression, overshadowed by Duke Garva’s stern, unyielding gaze. The darkness swallowed him, and he wondered if he would ever see the light of day again.

Chapter 83 - Grab Hold of It - Leonard 32

The crowd shouted its joy at the army’s entrance. Children ran along the length of the security cordon set up by the SF along the main street, throwing flower petals. Young men stared at the gleaming soldiers pass by with intrigue and admiration, which would likely mean an increase in recruits in the coming days.

Expectant mothers and older women watched the parade with more reservations, likely waiting to see if the other shoe would drop. Leonard would do his best to reassure them of their safety in the coming days.

Urging his horse forward from where it had stopped to taste a carrot proffered by an old man—only after an SF mage had checked it over for poison—Leonard left the entrance plaza and entered the trade street proper, where thousands of people cheered for his passage.

I wonder how much of that is genuine happiness at being relieved of a terrible lord and how much is hope we'll see their compliance and not crack down on possible rebels. Huh, we are now big enough to have our own rebels.

All the while, Leonard kept waving, his photoshoot face on. It wouldn’t do to let the newly conquered population think he was already bored of them. And it wasn’t even true. He was pretty sick of parades and other pr events, but conquering Treon had taken so long that it felt more like a relief. He was just too used to thinking about what else he needed to do to fully enjoy the moment.

Especially because the hard part starts now. Yes, I had to build up an army from scratch, but the enemies so far were barely worth considering an obstacle. Only Locke could have been dangerous, but he was hamstrung by the idiotic Count Luster-Treon and had to commit several mistakes not of his own volition. Pollus will be more in control, and if we beat him and take Hetnia, things will escalate again.

A little girl running with other children and throwing flower petals, which Leonard was starting to suspect had been conjured by his own men, accidentally slipped and tumbled right through the two soldiers maintaining the corridor, stopping only a little to Leonard’s left.

As the men made to grab her and pull her away, Leonard lifted a hand to stop them. He sincerely doubted that what looked like a six-year-old with a bandage around her eye was a threat to him, but knowing he’d never hear the end of it if he was too reckless, he quickly looked her over with his mana sight.

As expected, she was an ordinary little girl. She had a surprisingly high affinity for water magic that might develop into something interesting with a few years of training in her belt and a left eye rendered blind by a childhood illness. Nothing dangerous.

Leonard gestured for the parade behind him to halt, which they did without complaint, if with a bit of confusion.

Dismounting from his steed, he slowly approached her, ensuring she saw him coming. It wouldn’t do to spook her and ruin the moment.

But there was no need to worry. She had just picked herself up and turned around, only to freeze in surprise at seeing him so close. The girl let out a “meep” of shock but didn’t run, showing a courage that would serve her well.

From his periphery, Leonard saw a young woman rush toward the scene, likely the girl’s mother, but subtly gestured for the men to slow her down. He didn’t intend to keep them apart for long, but he had a miracle to perform.

Leonard knelt down in front of the little girl, his armor gleaming in the sunlight. The sun's rays strategically framed him, casting a halo of light that made him appear almost ethereal, like a divine figure descending to offer salvation. He smiled gently at the girl, radiating calm despite the overwhelming power he wielded.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said softly, his voice soothing and reassuring. The girl stared up at him, one wide eye open while the other was hidden beneath layers of bandages. She was understandably anxious but didn’t try to run away.

Slowly, with deliberate care, Leonard reached out and placed his hand over her bandages. The street around them fell into a hushed silence, the crowd’s breath collectively held in anticipation. Leonard could feel their eyes on him, their hopes and fears intermingling as they waited to see what he would do. He knew very well a first impression was hard to shake, and while most might know of the terrible battles he fought, seeing with their own eyes who he was would be much more powerful.

He kept his gaze kind, calling upon the Light that had guided him through so many battles. Golden radiance began to emanate from his hand, at first a soft glow, then growing more intense until it burst forth like the dawn breaking after a long night. It was overwhelming, spilling out into the street and casting away shadows, filling the people's hearts with awe.

It was more than what was needed for a simple healing, but Leonard knew that spectacle was as important as substance in this moment.

The bandages around the girl’s head disintegrated, the Light consuming them without harming a hair on her body. The golden glow continued to pour over and through her, not just healing the damaged eye but also erasing every small blemish and minor scar and even cleaning the dirt from her clothes. It was as though she was remade, leaving her pure and whole.

As the Light finally receded, the girl blinked, her newly healed eyes wide and astonished. She looked around, taking in the world with a clarity she had not known for too long. Her gaze landed on Leonard, and for a moment, there was nothing but uncomprehending awe in her expression.

Leonard stepped back, giving her space to absorb what had just happened. His smile was kind, his heart warmed by the joy that radiated from her small frame. The girl’s voice, filled with wonder, rang across the street. “I can see!” she exclaimed, her words carrying easily through the still air.

The sound was enough to shatter the silence, and a murmur of disbelief rippled through the crowd. Leonard, sensing the moment, subtly enhanced the girl’s voice just enough for it to be heard by everyone gathered. He wanted them all to witness this miracle, to feel the hope and joy it brought. This was what the Revolution was about.

He nodded to the soldiers holding back the mother, and they let go. She rushed forward, frantically reaching for her daughter. The woman’s hands trembled as she touched the girl’s face, as if afraid that she might be dreaming. When she saw her daughter’s clear, unmarred eyes looking back at her, her breath hitched, and tears of overwhelming joy streamed down her cheeks.

“Thank you,” she whispered, her voice breaking with emotion. “Thank you.”

Leonard simply offered a gentle smile, acknowledging her gratitude. He then turned around and mounted his horse once more as if what he had done was nothing exceptional. The crowd watched in stunned silence, still struggling to conciliate the image of the conquering rebel with what they had seen. Then, as if a dam had broken, a wave of cheers and applause erupted, filling the air with the sound of jubilation that felt much more real.

———

“I haven’t even sat down, and you already tried to scare me. Is this what I should expect from my most loyal men?” Leonard asked jokingly, staring at where Damien had managed to hide through the sweep his guards had done of the room.

“Ah, I have been caught.” The priest chuckled, emerging from a hidden nook close to one of the bookshelves. An illusion spell frizzled around him, fading away into harmless sparks.

The guards shouted in surprise, unsheathing their weapons and preparing to rush the sudden threat, but were halted by Leonard’s raised hand. It wouldn’t do to have one of his most valuable people skewered by his own soldiers, “It’s fine. He’s one of ours.”

The guards took a moment to recognize the vicar, but they relaxed their stance once they did.

Leonard dismissed them with a wave of his hand, waiting until they had all left the room to turn around and face the other hidden surprise. “You two must have had a lot of fun if this is how you’re greeting me, Neer.”

The half-orc exited her own hidden alcove, scratching the back of her head in embarrassment. “Ah, I suggested we surprise the guards to see how they’d react and then Damien started casting illusion spells… It might have gotten a bit out of hand.”

Leonard chuckled, shaking his head in amusement as he approached the heavy, carved ironwood desk. “You two are going to give my guards a heart attack one of these days. Though I suppose it’s good to keep them on their toes.”

Damien and Neer exchanged conspiratorial glances before sitting on nearby chairs to debrief. “So,” Leonard began, leaning forward slightly, “give me the rundown. What are we dealing with?”

Neer went first, tone shifting from playful to serious. “Unrest is nonexistent at the moment. The people are relieved, for now. They’re too busy celebrating the end of the Count’s rule to cause any trouble. But,” she added, lineaments sharpening, “we’ve noticed a few higher-ranking members of the City Watch acting a bit too clever for their own good. They’re keeping their heads down for now, but I wouldn’t be surprised if they try something later.”

Leonard nodded thoughtfully. “Have them watched. Discreetly. We can’t afford to let them organize, but they might lead us to more rebels. Better to rip them out by the roots.”

“Already on it,” Neer confirmed. “I’ve got my best people keeping tabs on them. They won’t eat dinner without us knowing what spices went in it.” She tapped her fanged lips in thought, and added, “Supplies are running low, but now that the siege is lifted, we can start bringing in merchants and farmers again. I’ve already made arrangements with my people in the nearby villages. They’re preparing relief caravans as we speak. We just need a few more alchemists to prepare the brews if we want to set up a few hospitals like in the other towns, but I heard from Lia that she already has a group of those coming, so the army shouldn’t need to waste too much time or resources to take care of the worst cases until they arrive.”

As always, the half-orc’s talent for establishing order was amazing. Just thinking of how wasted she was being a bodyguard to a minor noble like De Hoop made Leonard angry. Still, he didn’t let that distract him and smiled in acknowledgment before gesturing to Damien.

“The local congregation was a bit more resistant, but after a few... conversations, they’ve seen the light. The youngest priests were awed at being let in on higher healing magics and at our approach to the sick. The most stubborn members have been persuaded to see our way, and the Bishop’s unfortunate ‘accident’ helped smooth things over.”

Leonard arched an eyebrow. “Accident?”

Damien smiled faintly, his eyes glinting with satisfaction. “He fell from grace, so to speak.”

Leonard chuckled. “Efficient as always. Well done. The temple can be a powerful ally or a dangerous enemy. Make sure they incorporate our doctrine in their next sermons. But do it slowly. Big cities like this have many more learned people and we don’t want to appear like tyrants hurriedly taking over.”

Damien inclined his head in acknowledgment, the smile never leaving his face.

After the initial debrief, Leonard shifted the conversation to their next objective. “We’ve secured the city, but now we need to bring it fully under our control. That means incorporating the best fighters from the Mage Tower and the Adventurer Guild. I have already sent Gerard to see what can be done to bring them under our wing, but we’ll need to be careful not to be too heavy-handed. The two Masters might have submitted, but they wouldn’t hesitate to betray us too if we give them a reason.”

Neer crossed her arms, considering. “That’s going to be tricky. They’re a proud lot and love their independence.”

“That’s why we won’t strong-arm them,” Leonard replied. “We’ll incentivize. Use the loot from the minor noble households to set up ‘gifted’ programs all over the city, especially in the slums. Make it appealing for the best and brightest to join us voluntarily. If we flood the city with opportunity, we’ll win them over without ever having to draw a sword.”

Chapter 84 - Noir is Back in Style - Eleanor 3

The atmosphere in the castle had often been festive during her employment, as the Count constantly threw parties to amuse and distract himself, but it had never been as light as today’s.

The hallways were crawling with soldiers, busy bringing this or that emergency to the appropriate officer’s desk, yet Eleanor walked through them without fear.

She didn’t hide or cringe away like she used to, scared of what the burly men might do to her. Oh, she knew these people weren’t fundamentally different from those she had known before, but the organization they belonged to didn’t tolerate excessively rude behavior. Indeed, she was sure that she could walk among them in her smallclothes, and they’d only leer a little before reprimanding her for breaking decorum.

Only a few of the servants she had known remained employed, and they exchanged respectful nods whenever they met, though they didn’t stop to chat, as their days were possibly even busier now.

On her way down to the dungeons, Eleanor decided it wasn’t just the atmosphere she enjoyed. Having actively helped to change it was what satisfied her the most.

Little Eleanor, a scaredy cat afraid of every shadow after running from the Void, would have never managed to do what she had. The mere idea of bullying and intimidating her superiors into letting an enemy army into the castle would have made her faint.

And yet, she had done all that and hadn’t lost a wink of sleep over it.

Her change was apparent not just in demeanor. Receiving her second Blessing had been an experience she still had a hard time believing. As a maid, she had expected the usual effects: becoming faster and more efficient at household chores, having a stronger body to fulfill her tasks, and having a vague sense of what still needed to be done.

But her suspicions her secret activities would influence her progression turned out to be correct. Beyond all the basic upgrades, she also became able to avoid anyone’s notice unless they were actively looking for her or had a sensory enhancement of their own. What she could only describe as her talent as a spy increased dramatically. No longer did she need to tensely wait for the perfect moment to move about. She now could immediately assess any situation or place she was in and begin planning her moves accordingly. Her observation skills increased by leaps and bounds, and she was forced to confront the reality that she had been incredibly lucky to avoid notice for so long, with how obvious she had been.

If the Count had held onto even a slightly competent spymaster, he’d have found me immediately. Instead, he was so arrogant that he believed himself to be the center of Treon and that as long as he kept all the other local nobles in his court where he could see them, none of them would be able to plot against him.

Natural light became scarcer as Eleanor walked deeper into the castle’s bowels. Her steps echoed faintly against the stone walls, and her mind raced. This was the final act of her betrayal, and she wasn’t sure how she felt about it. If she pulled this off, she’d be free to change occupations.

No one had asked this of her, but she still felt compelled to see her decision to hand the castle over to the rebels through.

The dungeon’s guards greeted her silently, letting her in once she showed the badge Damien had granted her.

Inside, it was less gloomy than she remembered, which showed just how different the Revolution was from the nobles. Even prisoners were afforded basic decency.

She only had to walk a hundred feet before she found who she was looking for.

The head maid, Geraldine, was once an imposing figure in the household. She was just a tired old woman now. With how perfidious her behavior had been, Eleanor knew better than to underestimate her. Still, she didn’t come here for revenge. Not one many would understand, at least.

As she approached the iron bars and was noticed, she found the woman standing rigid, her eyes blazing with fury.

"Eleanor!" She spat, frothing with anger. She lunged at the bars, fingers curling through the gaps as if to tear them apart. "You traitorous wretch! How dare you show your face here!”

Eleanor stopped just outside her reach, keeping her expression carefully neutral, though her heart pounded. The venom in the woman’s voice was palpable, and for a moment, she almost faltered. But she steeled herself. There was no reason to be afraid anymore.

"You’ve ruined everything!" Geraldine shrieked, voice echoing through the dungeon. "How could you betray our master like this? You ungrateful little—“

"Enough!" Eleanor’s voice was sharp, cutting through the tirade. She didn’t raise her voice often, but now it was cold and commanding. She hadn’t come here to be hurled abuse at. "You’ve had your say; now sit down."

Geraldine faltered, shocked into silence by the authority in Eleanor’s tone. With a huff, she stepped back and slumped onto the narrow cot in her cell. She was still bristling with anger, but the fight had left her, at least for the moment.

"Have you come to gloat, then?" She asked bitterly, her voice quieter but no less filled with venom. "To see what’s become of me now that you’ve destroyed everything?”

Eleanor was tempted to lash out, to throw back all the resentment she had harbored over the months—the memories of the woman turning a blind eye to the abuses she and the other young girls had endured, the cruelty she had shown to those beneath her, her dismissive attitude when asked what happened to those unlucky enough to catch the Count's attention. But she held back. There was a purpose to this visit, and she needed to keep control.

"I’m not here to gloat," Eleanor replied evenly. "Though I’d be lying if I said I didn’t find some satisfaction in seeing you like this. But no, I’m here because I need answers.”

The old woman snorted derisively. "Answers? From me? What could you possibly want to know, traitor? The castle is yours. The city is yours. I doubt you filthy rebels have left a single stone unturned. There is nothing left for you to take.”

Eleanor stepped closer to the bars, lowering her voice. "The Count has likely already forgotten about you. He’s too busy with his new slaves to worry about those left behind. If you want to get out of here alive one day, you’d be better off being cooperative.”

The dig about being abandoned made her flinch, but Geraldine quickly recomposed herself, lips curling into a sneer. "Cooperate with you? Never. Loyalty is everything to me. I dedicated my life to serving House Luster-Treon, and I’ll not betray that now, no matter what you say.”

"Loyalty?" Eleanor echoed, allowing a hint of bitterness to seep into her tone. "And what did that loyalty get you? Left to rot in a dungeon, forgotten by the very man you served so faithfully. He didn’t even think about taking you with him.”

Geraldine glared but said nothing. Eleanor could see the struggle in her eyes, the war between pride and the harsh reality of her situation. She pressed on.

"The Count took everything of value with him when he fled. He left the castle empty of anything of worth, believing himself the most important thing rather than thinking about what condition that would leave the people of Treon in. You know that as well as I do. So what is there left for you to be loyal to?”

The old woman scoffed again, but there was a flicker of something in her eyes. Fear and defiance mixed with frustration, if Eleanor had to bet.

"Shows how little you know, girl," she said, her voice heavy with contempt. "Some things cannot be taken away from the castle. Some things are bound to it and the family by ties stronger than you can imagine.”

Eleanor’s heart skipped a beat. She had suspected as much, but hearing it confirmed was something else entirely. "What things?" she asked, leaning in slightly. "What did the Count leave behind?”

Geraldine’s lips twisted into a cruel smile, glee returning life to her expression. "You think you can just waltz in here and take what’s been hidden for centuries? You’re a fool, Eleanor. You’ll never find it. And even if you did, you wouldn’t understand its power.”

Eleanor remained calm on the outside, but inside, her mind was racing. She had suspected something was hidden within the castle, something unwieldy enough that the Count had deemed impossible to move.

She needed to know more but couldn’t push too hard, or she might lose the woman’s cooperation entirely. So she stepped back, letting a small, thoughtful smile play on her lips.

"Perhaps," she said, her voice casual, "but it seems to me that whatever it is, it didn’t do much good for you or your precious master. And it won’t help you now, locked away down here. But if you were willing to talk… perhaps you could find a way out of this situation.” She leaned back just enough for the medallion at her neck to catch the light.

Geraldine narrowed her eyes, suspicion warring with the faintest glimmer of hope. Eleanor could see that she was teetering on the edge, and all it would take was the right push. Unfortunately, she knew the woman enough to realize she’d clam up if she added more pressure now.

"Think about what I said," she said, keeping her voice low. "I’ll be back.”

“Lady Neer, thank you for seeing me. I won’t take too much of your time.” Eleanor greeted, curtseying slightly out of habit.

The half-orc charged with keeping the pace within Treon grunted back.

“I believe, and have now received confirmation from the castle’s previous head maid, that there might be something of great worth hidden here that has yet to be found.” She explained, doing her best to prevent the words from rushing out. She didn’t want to appear like a kid sharing a secret. She needed the lady to take her seriously if she wanted to jump from not-useful anymore spy to actual revolutionary.

Neer looked up from the maps spread across the table, tusks peeking out slightly as she frowned in thought. She was a formidable figure, with broad shoulders and a commanding presence that made Eleanor feel small despite her recent accomplishments. The half-orc had been instrumental in the Revolution's success, and apparently, her strategic mind was as sharp as the greatsword she kept within arm’s reach.

To be given such a role from the Hero, she had to be. He was the Light’s Avatar, after all.

Eleanor kept her posture straight, waiting for a response. The silence stretched on for a few moments, the only sound being the low murmur coming from outside the open window.

“Something of great worth?” Neer finally asked skeptically. She leaned back in her chair, folding her meaty arms across her chest. “The castle has been checked over with a fine comb, girl. My people have gone through every room, every secret passage, every hidden chamber. If there was something of value, we would have found it by now.”

Eleanor resisted the urge to fidget under Neer’s gaze. She knew she had to choose her words carefully. “I understand, my lady, and I don’t doubt the thoroughness of your search. But the head maid hinted that things are tied to this castle, things that might not be so easily uncovered by conventional means.”

Neer raised an eyebrow, her expression still dubious. “And you believe her?”

Eleanor hesitated, then nodded. “I do. The Count left in a hurry, and he’s an idiot, but he knows his House well. If there’s something here that he couldn’t take with him, it’s because it’s either too well hidden or too dangerous to move. I believe it’s worth investigating further.”

Neer tapped her fingers on the table, her eyes narrowing as she considered Eleanor’s words. “And what exactly do you expect to find?”

“I’m not sure,” Eleanor admitted, “but I’m confident it’s something significant. The head maid was loyal to the Count to the end. She wouldn’t have bragged unless she thought it was important.”

Neer sighed, a low rumble echoing in her chest. “You know, resources are stretched thin as it is. We can’t afford to chase shadows. If this is a wild goose chase, it will reflect poorly on you.”

Eleanor felt a pang of anxiety at the thought, but she forced herself to remain composed. “I understand the risks, and I’m willing to accept the consequences if this turns out to be nothing. But I trust my instincts.”

Neer studied her for a long moment, her eyes piercing. “You’ve already proven your usefulness in taking this castle, Eleanor. That’s the only reason I’m even entertaining this idea. But be warned—if this search leads nowhere, it will be a mark against you. We’re not in the business of wasting time or resources.”

Eleanor nodded, feeling a mix of relief and trepidation. “I agree to your terms, my lady. I’ll conduct the search discreetly.”

“Good,” Neer said, her tone brooking no argument. “You have one week. After that, you’ll move on.”

“One week,” Eleanor repeated, her mind already racing. “Thank you.”

Neer nodded curtly and returned to her maps, clearly dismissing her. Eleanor turned and left the room, her heart pounding. She had gotten what she needed—a chance to show she was worth more than just as a conveniently placed maid.

Chapter 85 - Back in Town - Sigurd 3

“Young master, we’re almost there!”

Sigurd smiled and bowed lightly in thanks, sending the man beaming back to his crew, who swarmed him like gossiping old ladies. Sigurd almost allowed his smile to drop, but his long years of acting allowed him to retain a perfect facade. What should have been a perfect facade.

The caravan had been held up at the checkpoint to enter the swamp for a long time, and while Sigurd wasn’t exactly in a hurry, his employer had made it clear he needed to get his ass to Treon if he wanted to keep being paid. Thus, he had swanned over to the front, hoping to be able to smooth over any problem with his charm.

Upon seeing him arrive, however, the SF soldiers dropped any objection and allowed them through, waving away the merchants’ confused questions and urging them forward so that the road would not be blocked.

Ever since then, the men treated Sigurd like royalty. He was quite sure they all believed him to be either a high-ranking officer in disguise or even the lover of one.

Normally, he wouldn't have minded the gossip. He thrived in being talked about, and any good bard knew the value of a saucy story. But it grated him that it had spread far outside his control and without his input.

The SF's knowledge of his identity and that he worked for the revolution also revealed a much larger operation than he had initially understood, and the fact that it happened under his nose meant that he was slipping.

Looking up from his brooding, Sigurd saw Hetnia’s westernmost city in the distance. Towering white walls peeked above the grassy hills, giving the impression of being unassailable.

Considering that the city had very much fallen in recent times, having big walls and powerful wards might not be the most important thing of all.

Not that any noble is about to stop spending on maintaining their active defenses just because passive ones are more effective at actually preventing a takeover. Visible protections are as much a deterrent as they are a roadblock and a source of prestige. There is little nobles like more than prestige.

Sigurd took a moment to check over his belongings, since he was about an hour away from finally being freed from the staring. He found a surprise.

“Room 27 is reserved for you at the Swirling Swan Inn near the docks. We’ll have dinner together. Order a local red while you wait.”

The message was written on a plain piece of whitish paper. Not parchment, which meant the mills had finally begun running and he should expect the price of both to drop significantly.

I have also gotten myself a date. Look at you, not even in the city and already breaking hearts.

The thought was more self-deprecating than he would have liked. His employer, Lady Amelia, had never shown even the slightest hint of interest, much to his frustration. Since his duties so far had been perfectly acceptable, he hadn’t felt the need to overreach and push his charms on her. It wouldn’t be worth it, and he doubted she’d appreciate it for more than a laugh.

I'll eat my hat if that woman is interested in anything other than the Hero's approval. Well, not my hat. I like it too much. But I’ll buy a hat and eat that.

Fresh off a luxurious bath that freed him from road dust and other unnamable things, Sigurd took a moment to apply hair oil to his curls. Being as strong as he was, the constraints of a mortal body were significantly lessened than what he used to suffer under, but he retained some habits, as they allowed him to think things through.

His initial sightseeing was enough to get a vague idea of what he was working with, and he was pleasantly surprised to find that Treon wouldn’t be more difficult than Lamprey Port had been.

It’d take more time for his songs to spread initially, but they would pick up steam much faster than in any small town—perks of an already lively musical scene. The people were more refined and used to bards, even if this was still a small city in the grand scheme of things.

Certainly nothing like Mellassoria, where a new bard enters the city every day and not even in the same realm as Dur’dur’dur. The competition there was, without a doubt, the stiffest I have ever experienced. I learned scales that would make a human bleed.

All settlements he visited during his tour of the liberated territories shared the same undercurrent of hope that things would finally turn for the better. Treon wasn’t an exception to this. Yes, there was more variety, especially since, as a city built on commerce, being cut off from Garva would surely bring some trouble to the western merchants. Still, the new government had likely already implemented the first of the many reforms they had tested in smaller trade towns, and Sigurd expected they’d be able to weather the storm without too much rocking.

Beyond the strictly economic observations, he had been glad to see that the new City Watch—essentially the SF rebranded for the occasion—was being treated with only a reasonable amount of wariness. More than anything, this showed what the locals thought of the revolutionaries.

I still have to visit the slums, but I got a good look today. I should be able to work with this. Maybe make the songs less about battle and more about hope for the future and vaguely nice things? Mmmh, yes, Treon hasn’t suffered a bloody siege, but they still lost a lot of people. It's better to reframe the discussion away from those.

As far as Sigurd could tell, most of the local soldiers sent to fight the Revolution had returned home unharmed, surprising many who had given them for lost once news of General Locke’s death trickled down. That, more than anything the Hero had done save perhaps the miracle healing he occasionally engaged in, had convinced the city to give him a chance.

A knock on the door broke him away from his contemplations. “Yes?” He called.

“Dear guest, your dining room is ready. I was asked to inform you of this the moment the preparations were complete.” A young female voice came from the other side, a bit hesitantly.

“Ah, yes. Thank you, dear. I’ll be there in a jiffy.” Sigurd replied, silently sighing at his chain being yanked. It was a very gentle yank, more to remind him of his duties to avoid having him lose too much time on unnecessary fluff than any serious reprimand, but it still annoyed him. Downsides of having an employer. Nothing to do about it.

Rapidly completing the oiling process, Sigurd stoppered his precious Heartseed vial and slipped it back into his pocket. He doubted he’d be brought here to be poisoned, but he hadn’t made it this far by taking anything for granted.

Slipping his evening suit on, having decided on a more traditional masculine cut than he usually preferred, he grabbed his lute and headed downstairs.

The private dining room reserved for him was tucked away in a quiet corner of the inn, ensuring privacy from prying eyes and ears with surprisingly sophisticated enchantments—the type one would find in top-class inns.

As he approached the door, it swung open almost soundlessly, revealing a handsome red-haired butler who greeted him with a practiced smile. “Good evening, dear guest,” he said smoothly, bowing slightly as he gestured to the inside.

Sigurd’s trained eye didn’t miss the faint signs of glamour that shimmered around the butler’s neck, hiding what seemed to be a series of love bites. His eyebrow twitched in amusement, but he chose not to comment. He could easily see through second-tier glamours, being able to maintain them in his sleep, but he knew better than to pry into the personal affairs of servants. Still, the fact that the glamour was there at all was curious, and it added another layer to his mental picture of the place.

He gave the butler a friendly nod and stepped in, observing the elegant setting. The table was set for two, with fine china and crystal glasses, all illuminated by the soft glow of candles. He placed his lute carefully on a nearby stand before seating himself in the plush chair at the head of the table.

“Please, make yourself comfortable. I am at your service should you need anything while you wait for your companion. You need only ring the bell,” the butler said, friendly expression firmly in place as he discreetly withdrew from the room, closing the door behind him.

Left alone in the quiet room, Sigurd took a moment to relax. The ambiance was soothing, with the faint scent of lavender in the air and the soft crackling of a small fire in the hearth. He allowed himself to sink into his thoughts, his fingers absently tapping on the table as he worked through the new melody that had been bouncing around in his head.

He hummed softly, trying out different phrases and rhymes. “The Hero brought the light... on a dark day... lifted up the veil that blocked our way…”

He paused, considering the words. They were close but not quite right. He wanted the song to resonate with the people of Treon, to capture the essence of the city’s newfound hope and the Revolution’s promise. But the right balance was tricky to find. “Chains were broken...” he tried, but immediately shook his head.

No, that wouldn’t do. Treon wasn’t known for its slaves despite having a decent population, and the imagery wouldn’t connect as strongly with the locals. He needed something more universal to speak to the people’s relief and cautious optimism.

He tapped his fingers again, thinking. “The darkness fled... the light did sway…”

Better, but still not perfect. Sigurd frowned, drumming his fingers as he searched for the right words. Finally, a simple verse formed in his mind:

“With truth as our guide, we found the way,

The light of the Hero turned night to day.”

It was a good start. He’d polish it later, but it captured the spirit he wanted. Something uplifting, something that would inspire the people to see the Hero and the Revolution as the forces that had brought a brighter future to their city. He needed something more specific to Treon in the later verses once he had eased in the crowds to a feel-good tune, but that could wait until he had completed his observations of the city.

Satisfied for the moment, Sigurd picked up his lute and strummed a few chords, playing softly as he refined the melody to fit the lyrics. The music filled the room, weaving together with the crackling fire and the gentle flicker of the candlelight into something that wasn’t quite a rigid spell but was just as magical.

He was so absorbed in his work that he didn’t notice the shadow in the corner of the room until it moved. Sigurd looked up just in time to see Lady Amelia emerging from the darkness, her sudden appearance startling both him and the butler, who had quietly re-entered the room to refill his wine glass, likely alerted by the active enchantment on the table.

The Mistress of Shadows’ entrance was as silent as it was dramatic, her presence immediately filling the room. She wore a dress that seemed to be made from the night sky itself, its deep black fabric studded with tiny, twinkling lights like distant stars. The effect was mesmerizing, and Sigurd found it hard to tear his eyes away, especially once he recognized it for what it was—an active fifth-tier spell woven into the very fabric of the dress.

The woman was wearing enough mana to power the city’s wards!

Amelia noticed his scrutiny and smiled, a knowing glint in her eyes. “Eyes up here, Sigurd,” she said, tone teasing yet firm.

Sigurd flushed, his embarrassment deepening as he realized how it must have looked. “My apologies, Lady Amelia. I was merely appreciating the craftsmanship of the spell.”

Her smile widened slightly, taking a predatory tint. “Of course. I’m sure that’s all it was.”

Sigurd cleared his throat, trying to regain his composure. He was used to being the one who disarmed others with his charm and wit, not the other way around. But she had a way of unsettling him, throwing him off balance just enough to make him feel like a novice again.

She took her seat across from him, her smile softening. The butler, now recovered from his own surprise, quickly filled their glasses with the rich, local red wine Sigurd had ordered. It was delicious.

“Shall we?” Amelia said, raising her glass.

Sigurd mirrored her gesture, lifting his glass to his lips. “To the Glorious Revolution.”

Chapter 86 - Seeing is Believing - Sigurd 4

“I still don’t get how you ended up following me along.” Eleanor complained, and Sigurd carefully kept his placid smile from becoming a smirk. He might enjoy irritating her for her reactions, but too much would likely see him booted out of the castle.

“My wit and charm?” He asked, not able to help himself.

Eleanor groaned in frustration but didn’t try to chase him away this time, which he counted as a win. “No, definitely not those. And if you continue much longer, I’ll forget I need an enchantment expert to crack the protections and do it myself.”

Immediately, Sigurd put on the most cherubic, innocent look in his repertoire, which was saying something. It was so effective that Eleanor had to do a double take, blinking in shock, before she remembered who she was talking to.

Sigurd sniggered internally. He had initially been intrigued by the prospect of another side quest similar to his decoding of Lamprey Port’s Tower’s artifact but had seen it as simply a fun aside from his bard job. Instead, he had been pulled into a complex mission that required all his charm and intimidation abilities. He even needed to dust off his dueling skills once after a particularly daring guardsman-revealed-spy decided to go off in a flare of glory.

And now, the grand finale. Well, after the last obstacle was cleared.

The eastern wing of the castle once housed the innumerable minor lordlings the Count kept at his court and was thus mostly a maze of richly furnished chambers and servant corridors. It was now being used to hold important documents and a few valuable prisoners.

Their last task was currently being held in one of these chambers after a long stint in the dungeons. Eleanor seemed to think this wouldn’t be enough to convince her to sing, and so Sigurd had been called in as an expert.

They stopped before the heavy oak door leading to the small chamber where the former head maid was being held. Eleanor turned to Sigurd, her expression letting him know there wouldn't be any more horsing around. If he fucked this up for her, he’d risk his position in the Revolution.

"Remember, the woman inside knows the Count and his adjutants intimately. She’s not going to be fooled by a shoddy imitation. Keep to the story I gave you and don’t improvise unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

Sigurd smiled reassuringly. "Don’t worry, dear Eleanor. I’m good enough for an old woman. Besides, I’ve done my homework. Trust me.”

Eleanor’s frown didn’t soften, but she stepped aside to let him approach the door. Sigurd took a deep breath and muttered an incantation, casting a glamour over himself. In an instant, his features began to shift. His lean, angular face became rounder, his nose broader, and his eyes took on a slight upward slant. His hair lightened to a sandy blond, and his posture subtly altered, becoming a little more hunched, a little more eager. He was now the spitting image of Melos Huster, son of Baron Huster of Huster’s Nest—a young noble known for his desperate attempts to curry favor with Ronald Luster-Treon and for being one of the few the Count had kept in his confidence through the years.

Melos was the perfect choice. His reputation as a sycophant who would engage in any dangerous or unsavory task for the Count’s approval made it believable that he’d risk sneaking back into Treon to retrieve something valuable. The real Melos was far away, licking his wounds in Garva after the Revolution's swift takeover and likely clinging to the Count’s skirts, so there was little chance of the ruse being exposed, especially because the old maid was aware that several young nobles had been left behind and was unlikely to know the specifics of who.

Satisfied with his transformation and having earned an imperious nod from Eleanor, Sigurd softly opened the door before entering. The room was dimly lit, with only a single candle flickering on a table by the bed where the head maid sat and an open window that let in some fresh air. Her eyes were weary and suspicious, likely still not adjusted to her changed environment and waiting for the other shoe to drop. Eleanor had been smart enough to let her understand she was being shown how good she could have it if she gave up her last secret, but also never letting her know she wasn’t working alone.

Acting like an overly ambitious maid comes very easy for her.

Sigurd quietly closed the door behind him and padded over to the window, where he quickly drew the curtains. He acted as if he was being exceedingly careful, his movements furtive and nervous.

Geraldine’s eyes widened in surprise, her hand flying to her mouth as if to scream. But she stopped when she recognized the intruder. “Lord Melos?” she whispered in shock.

Sigurd gave her a quick, conspiratorial smile and rushed over to her side. “Shh, yes, it’s me,” he said, keeping his voice low. “Keep your voice down; it was already difficult enough getting here. Listen, the Count needs me—he needs us.”

Her gaze sharpened, suspicion returning. “What are you doing here? You should be in Garva with the others. Surely you weren’t left behind?”

Sigurd leaned in closer, dropping his voice to a whisper. “It was too risky to all go there. Besides, the Count gave me a mission to retrieve something very important—something that cannot fall into the rebels’ hands.” The same smarmy smile he had seen in Eleanor’s memories reappeared on his current face, and Sigurd visibly saw the woman relax her shoulders at the sight.

People always forget about body language when they impersonate someone. A good glamour is never good enough on its own.

"But I can’t get to it—the new owners have taken over the wards and changed the setting, and the inner protections only allow those the castle considers allies.”

Though she wasn’t about to scream—honestly, what did she think would happen if he was really an impostor and thus belonged to the Revolution?—Geraldine was still not entirely convinced.

She narrowed her eyes, clearly skeptical. “Why should I believe you? These devils are certainly capable of using illusions.” Sigurd doubted she actually believed him to be a rebel, or she wouldn’t have entertained him at all. Likely, she wanted to be convinced he really was who he said he was out of paranoia borne of spending days in the dungeons.

He was ready for this. Leaning back slightly, his expression became pained as if he didn’t want to share what he was about to. “Do you remember when we had to cover for the Count when that Hammerfest Ambassador’s vase was broken? I was the one who blamed it on the butler—remember? And what about the Silverstar Merchant’s daughter? The Count and I pressured her with that contract until she had no choice but to entertain him. You were there. You helped us.” The maid’s breath caught, her eyes widening with recognition.

Those were secrets she thought no one else knew—which went to show just how important it was to do your own research. Her posture relaxed slightly, though her eyes still held a trace of wariness. “How could you...?” she began but then shook her head. “No, no one else would know. It has to be you, Lord Melos. But why would the Count send you alone? And why me?”

Sigurd sighed as if irritated to still have to talk—little Melos wasn’t known to be patient with the servants. “The Count is in a difficult position. He couldn’t risk sending anyone with an important position in the household for fear they’d attract too much attention from the servants, and you know we nobles are considered apart from House Luster-Treon. But you, you’re staff. The castle should still recognize you as loyal. You might be our only chance to retrieve the artifact.”

The maid hesitated, her fingers twisting nervously in her lap. “And you’re sure the Count wants us to take the Eye out? I was always told to avoid drawing attention to it in case the castle fell…”

Jackpot! The Eye… It must be some sensory artifact, but for it to be this secret, it must be quite something. At least this validates Eleanor’s theory. There actually is something important hidden in the castle that the soldiers and diviners somehow missed.

“Of course,” Sigurd lied smoothly. “He knows you’re one of the few he can still trust. But we have to be careful. There’s a girl who’s been snooping around, asking too many questions. We need to move quickly and quietly. We cannot risk anyone learning about the Eye.”

The maid glanced towards the door and then back at Sigurd. After a moment, she nodded slowly. “Alright. Alright. It must not fall into these bastards’ hands.” She growled with surprising firmness.

Sigurd hid his satisfaction, keeping Melos' nervous energy as he followed the maid. She moved out of the room with a surprising swiftness, barely glancing at the sleeping guard on the floor, clearly familiar with every hidden passage and servant’s corridor in the castle. Sigurd matched her pace, though he took care to maintain the appearance of someone who was out of his element but determined.

They passed through narrow hallways lined with faded tapestries and forgotten dust, the kind of passages that nobles rarely, if ever, tread. Despite her age, Geraldine was quick on her feet, but every so often she’d glance back to ensure Sigurd was following, her face tight with anxiety.

Eleanor’s decision to go to the leadership and ask them to avoid cleaning up these corridors is turning out smarter than I expected. I thought it was too paranoid, but the old bitch would have suspected something if she had seen them clean.

At one point, she stopped abruptly, holding up a hand. Sigurd halted just in time to hear the heavy footfalls of a patrol passing by on the main corridor just ahead. The maid quickly pulled him into a nearby cleaning closet, the scent of lye and damp wood filling the confined space.

They stood in silence, Geraldine’s breathing shallow and rapid, while Sigurd forced himself to fidget, glancing towards the door as the steps echoed past them.

Once the sound of the patrol faded, the maid exhaled slowly and nodded towards the door, apologizing quietly for having to grab him. Sigurd grumbled under his breath like a lordling would but followed her lead as they continued their journey, descending deeper into the castle’s bowels. The air grew cooler and more stagnant, the stone walls slick with moisture from the nearby river.

They finally reached the kitchen’s cold room through a series of corridors Sigurd was pretty sure had no reason to exist.

It was a windowless chamber, large and barely illuminated, with slabs of meat hanging from hooks and barrels of preserved goods lining the walls. The magical cold bit into Sigurd’s skin, but he barely noticed it. His focus was entirely on the maid, who seemed to know exactly where to go.

She led him to a seemingly inconspicuous corner, past stacks of crates full of dried meats. Sigurd watched her closely, using every small clue from her body language to guide his next steps. When she hesitated, her eyes flicking toward a particular direction, he moved there first as if he had known the way all along. This display of confidence finally allowed Geraldine to let her guard down, convincing her that Melos truly had been given this mission. No one but the Count or his most loyal household servants would know the way, after all.

They reached a small, empty section of the cold room, dominated only by a butcher’s table and a few scattered utensils. Sigurd’s eyes flitted over the area, searching for any hidden mechanism or clue, but it was Geraldine who acted.

She stepped forward, her hands clasped tightly together, and murmured a phrase in a voice barely above a whisper. “Look into the Truth without Fear.”

As soon as the words left her lips, the butcher's table began to shift, sinking into the floor with a soft rumble. A staircase was revealed, spiraling down into darkness.

Geraldine looked back at him with faint relief. “The Eye is down there,” she said, her voice steady now that they were close. “We must get it out and smuggle it to the emergency corridors. They’re just a few hundred feet away from here, and we’ll be able to slip out unnoticed.” They descended the staircase, their steps echoing off the stone walls.

The air grew even colder, now well beyond freezing, and the shadows deeper until they finally emerged into a chamber that seemed to belong to a different world altogether. The room was perfectly preserved despite the path’s disuse, its walls carved with intricate runes that glowed faintly with stored mana. Mana crystals in the ceiling illuminated the room in a soft, bluish glow, giving it an almost otherworldly feel.

In the center of the chamber stood an ornate mirror, its surface rippling with a strange, liquid-like texture that seemed to shimmer with every movement. The frame was made of dark, polished wood, etched with runes Sigurd had never seen before in his long life.

Geraldine sighed in relief, the tension in her shoulders visibly easing. “The Eye,” she murmured, stepping closer to the mirror.

Sigurd was about to tell her to step away when he caught a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye. Before he could react, Eleanor appeared from the darkness and moved with lightning speed. She swung a broom, striking the maid on the back of the head with a sickening thud.

Geraldine crumpled to the floor, unconscious before she even hit the ground.

Chapter 87 - Uh Oh - Eleanor 4

“That doesn’t look like an Eye to me,” Sigurd muttered, carelessly stepping over Geraldine’s unmoving body.

Despite having been the one to deal the blow, Eleanor was still somewhat shaken. She didn’t think she had hit the old maid hard enough to kill and was relieved to find her still breathing.

“And I still have no idea what those runes mean! Oh, this is delightful!” The ditzy bard kept saying, disguise slowly fading away until only the handsome, if annoying, man was left.

“We should see if we can move it safely or at least send for Lady Neer before activating it,” Eleanor said, trying to plan her next few steps. She had been so concentrated on not letting the head maid realize the depth of her deception that she hadn’t thought about what to do once she finally found what she had been running around the castle for.

“Ah, you should be able to do that, right?” She clapped, speaking directly to the ground.

Below her feet, two poisonous yellow eyes blinked open questioningly.

“I know you were assigned to protect me while I went about my mission, but I’ve achieved it now. You can go and tell Lady Neer that we found the artifact, right?” She asked again. She had been told the creatures were as intelligent as humans, and though it had taken her a while to feel comfortable being under constant watch, she now barely thought about it. Yes, the idea of an inhuman being following her everywhere, even in the privy, had been tough to swallow at first. Still, after the first time she had been attacked by a man who had previously worked in the castle for asking too many questions and barely gotten away, she stopped complaining.

Also, if Damien said it was safe, then it was safe. She trusted the vicar’s judgment more than she did her own. He might be devoted to his cause in soul, mind and body, but that didn’t mean he didn’t care for her. He had shown it by taking her under his wing and teaching her what it actually meant to be a spy. All the skills she had developed were because of him. If he hadn’t been there, she would have remained a bumbling country girl writing down useless observations for reasons she couldn’t even understand.

The shadow elemental nodded slowly, showing it had understood. It still didn’t move.

“I believe it might be wondering why you don’t want to take credit personally. Summoned spirits are bound to a contract, and it’s entirely foreign to them the idea of allowing someone else to report that their mission is complete unless in the direst circumstances.”Sigurd turned around, pulling a silver lock of hair back into his messy braid.

Eleanor sighed. Even after days of working together, she still wasn’t sure she had the measure of him. It was maddening, given that she prided herself on her observation abilities. Still, she could admit he was useful.

“Very well, then. I will go and inform Lady Neer myself while you wait here and make sure nothing happens to the mirror.”

Before she could turn around and march away, a hand grabbed her arm, halting her in her tracks. “I don’t think we have any idea of what we have here yet, and giving an incomplete report seems just like a bad job.” Sigurd wheedled, leveraging the curious side he knew she possessed. She wouldn’t have run around for days on a wild hunch otherwise!

Eleanor contemplated shrugging him off and going to Lady Neer anyway. She doubted he’d stop her. Eventually, curiosity won and she sighed, “Alright, but let’s get Geraldine away from here. I don’t want her to wake up and surprise us in a delicate moment. I read too many novels to make such a rookie mistake.”

This time, when she indicated the shadow to take the maid back to the dungeons, it complied without a fuss, showing that it had no problem following her orders.

Sigurd’s smug look told her what he was thinking. Fortunately, he refrained from rubbing it in her face.

With the head maid safely out of sight, the two turned their attention back to the mirror. It was obviously a powerful artifact to be hidden this deep below the surface and in a chamber with so many mana crystals. And yet, it sat there, inert.

Frankly, I expected something a bit more mysterious. Yes, it’s a gorgeous mirror, and I’m sure it has powerful enchantments, but what can a mirror show that a normal spell cannot?

She wasn’t necessarily afraid she wasted her time anymore. Indeed, she felt vindicated, but Eleanor could admit to being a bit underwhelmed.

“What do you think it does?” She asked, thinking of something similar to a fairytale mirror, capable of showing the heart’s desire or the truth hiding behind a disguise. It would be better than nothing, to be sure, but she couldn’t really see how it would serve the Revolution. They already had Masters aplenty and even Champions! It was said that Lady Neer could smell a lie from a mile away!

Sigurd hummed, stepping around the artifact, careful not to walk directly before it. “There are enough mana crystals here that it has to be something powerful. I thought that maybe they were using this as a strategic reserve, but no, every single crystal in the chamber is connected to the mirror. Whatever it does, it’s a thirsty beast.”

Eleanor spared the bard a glance. Every once in a while, the joking, playful personality would fade into the background and reveal something she was almost certain was ancient. When she had bluntly asked how old he was, Sigurd had gotten comically offended and skillfully redirected her attention away. More than anything, that convinced her he knew what he was doing. Well, that and Damien’s endorsement. He had been the one to suggest they pair up and convinced Lady Amelia to spare one of her servants to watch her despite their high demand.

Sigurd is right. It will be much more satisfying if I can bring this to the leadership’s attention having figured it out. I’m not going to do anything stupid, like hit it to see if it reacts, but I should try to understand some more. Even a vague hint should be enough.

She crouched down, running her fingers lightly over the ornate frame, tracing the unfamiliar symbols carved into the wood. The runes were intricate, their lines soft at times and angular at others, twisting in patterns that seemed almost too precise to have been made by human hands. "These symbols," she murmured, her brow furrowing, "don't look like anything I've seen before.” She was not an expert, but she had seen the Temples’ books once when she was a child taken to be initiated in Volten.

Sigurd knelt beside her, for once not running his mouth. He studied the runes closely, his eyes narrowing as he tried to decipher them. "Seventeen languages I can read," he said, more to himself than to Eleanor. "And I can recognize another twenty. But this…" He trailed off, shaking his head in frustration. "This is like nothing I've ever encountered. It doesn't even resemble any ancient scripts. Entirely alien to anything I know, and I’ve seen demonic writing.”

Eleanor flinched back.

She might not be a mage, but even she knew anything comparable to what came from the hells wasn’t good news. Those had the bad habit of corrupting the souls of those around them until they opened a breach for the demons. They always took a long time to clean up, and so soon after dealing with the Void… No, she wouldn’t be the one who started a new catastrophe, thank you very much.

“This doesn’t have a corruptive effect. I have a Blessing capable of detecting and withstanding that kind of thing. Bizarre.” Sigurd explained calmly, not nearly as worried as she was. “I thought it might be fae-related, but it’s not. There is nothing mind-warping about it, and it’s certainly not a dwarven artifact. Those boring sods would never waste their time making something this needlessly intricate when they can build more weapons.”

The more he spoke, the more Sigurd confirmed her suspicions of being something more than a simple traveling bard in the Revolution’s employ. Eleanor doubted he was malicious, as her mentor would have caught it well before her, but she still took note of everything he said. He was being much more open than he usually was.

“The only thing that comes to mind is that it might be an actual otherworldly artifact. But that cannot be. In all of Haylich’s history, no Hero has been summoned with anything other than their birthday clothes. And the ritual for that is basically divine in nature. Nothing can be gleaned from it, and it certainly cannot be changed to start summoning objects rather than people.”

Eleanor blinked, genuinely surprised at the depths of his knowledge. She had never really thought much about what went on with the Heroes before they were summoned and never about the specifics of how they were summoned. But it made sense to her that something that complicated would be very hard to change.

And why would an otherworldly artifact be in House Luster-Treon’s hands? They descend from one of the original generals of the conquest. As far as I know, they have nothing to do with Heroes and Saints.

Eleanor let out a frustrated sigh, sitting back on her heels. "We're not getting anywhere with this," she said, more irritated at her own lack of progress than at Sigurd. She stood abruptly, dusting off her hands. “You said it’s not corruptive, right? Mirrors are supposed to reflect things. Maybe we're overcomplicating this.”

Sigurd looked up in surprise as she took a step toward the front of the mirror. "Eleanor, wait—” But she was already moving.

The moment her reflection appeared on its surface, the chamber began to hum with an intense, growing energy. The runes on the mirror flared to life, glowing brighter and brighter as an incredible amount of mana was poured into the artifact, making the air vibrate with power.

"Eleanor!" Sigurd shouted, reaching out to pull her back, but it was too late. The mirror seemed to drink in the mana, the light becoming almost blinding. Eleanor felt the ground tremble beneath her feet, and a sudden fear gripped her heart. What if the castle collapsed under the sheer force of the magic being unleashed?

If that happens, we're dead. But it might be enough to kill everyone else, too. Oh, Light. Am I going to be the one to end the Revolution where the greatest generals failed? Please, I cannot.

The intense glow lasted only a few seconds but felt like an eternity. Then, just as suddenly as it had started, the light faded, and the chamber fell silent once more. The oppressive weight of the mana dissipated, leaving only the faintest shimmer in the air.

Eleanor blinked, her heart pounding in her chest. For a moment, she thought nothing had changed. But then, as she glanced back at the mirror, she saw it—floating just above her reflection’s head, a series of numbers, softly glowing with the same faint light as the runes.

She took a step closer, squinting to make out the digits. They hovered like an ethereal crown. "Sigurd, look," she said curiously. “What do you think they mean?”

“Uh Oh.”

Turning around in confusion, Eleanor saw her companion pale significantly. His already white skin became so ghastly that she could have believed him to be a wraith. His pupils were wide in fear and his hands gripped uselessly at the air, as if trying to grab onto something that wasn’t there.

“Uh Oh is right.” A smooth, deep voice came, startling them so badly that they fell into a heap.

Chapter 88 - The Eye - Leonard 33

Twin shrieks of surprise echoed through the chamber, loud enough for Leonard to be unsure if they had been heard even above ground.

He gave them a few seconds to compose themselves until they finally stopped holding their hearts in fear. “You can’t have expected no one to come take a look after all that rumbling and mana surge, right?”

Faster on the uptake, the young spy bowed in apology, “Grand Marshal, I’m terribly sorry to have disturbed you!”

On the other hand, the bard took a moment longer to apologize, giving Leonard a long once-over. “Yes, terribly sorry, sir. I’m afraid it’s something of a hazard when ancient, mysterious artifacts are involved.”

Leonard merely raised an eyebrow, waiting for a better explanation.

The girl didn’t even try to hold back and immediately launched into a longwinded story about how she started suspecting something valuable had been left behind in the castle, how she got confirmation from the previous head maid, ended up being attacked for her snooping, and was assigned a shadow as a guard alongside the bard.

“This led us to the disguise plot. I feared she’d refuse to help, if only because the Count hadn’t wanted to take the Eye with him. However, he was known for flip-flopping on his decisions, so she mustn’t have thought it too weird.” Her voice started nervous, but seeing he wasn’t interrupting, she picked up steam.

She then explained how the maid and Sigurd navigated the castle’s labyrinthine servant corridors, avoiding guards by hiding in closets and using every trick they knew to stay unnoticed while she hid in the shadows, watching. She detailed how they reached the kitchen’s cold room and found the secret chamber through the maid’s whispered incantation. Her recounting was precise, capturing every detail leading up to their discovery of the mirror.

When she finished, she took a deep breath, satisfied.

Leonard waited for a moment, and when it was evident nothing more was coming, he asked with a faint smile. "And what happened next?”

Eleanor’s face flushed as she realized her mistake. "Oh! Yes, I didn’t—well, I didn’t explain what happened with the mirror," she admitted, glancing nervously at Sigurd for support.

The bard, ready to step into the spotlight, took over smoothly. "It’s quite the artifact, Grand Marshal,” his tone shifted to one of respectful seriousness. "The mirror is powered by mana crystals embedded throughout the chamber. All the mana crystals. I initially thought they might be here for storage, but they are all connected to it and contribute power. When Eleanor stepped in front of the mirror, it drew an absurd amount of mana in and activated, but we’re still unsure what it’s showing us. Now that I think about it, it might be why it was left behind. If it needs this much mana every use, it cannot be removed from a dedicated chamber.”

Leonard’s amusement faded the more he listened. He didn’t want to jump to conclusions, especially because he had never heard even a whisper of such a thing being held here, but was it possible that the Luster-Treons didn’t know what they had?

Sigurd continued undeterred, "The runes on the mirror aren’t anything I recognize, and they don’t match any known languages or scripts, as far as I can tell. My best guess is that it’s an otherworldly artifact—something not of this world, or at least not of this dimension. The numbers it shows… well, they seem to be some kind of value, but what that value represents, I can’t tell yet. They didn’t fluctuate, so it might be fixed.”

Leonard’s gaze hardened, the lines of his face sharpening as his seriousness deepened. "Eleanor," he said, his voice low but commanding. "Step back in front of the mirror.”

She hesitated, twisting her hands in anxiety, not able to understand what had led to the shift in behavior. However, Leonard’s tone left no room for argument, and she had worked too hard to earn his trust to falter now.

With a deep breath, she nodded and walked back to the mirror, stepping into the exact spot she had been before. The chamber remained still as if the walls were holding their breath.

As she faced the mirror again, it began to glow softly, the runes around its frame pulsating with a rhythm that matched her heartbeat. The numbers reappeared above her head, floating in the air like an ethereal crown, the same as before.

There was no great power discharge this time, so it seemed like it was an activation requirement or an attunement issue.

Leonard’s eyes were fixed on the mirror, his expression unreadable but intense. "Do you see anything different?" he asked softly.

Eleanor looked into the mirror, then back at Leonard, shaking her head. "No, it’s the same as before. I have no idea what fifty-four might stand for, and those below it all seem slightly higher apart from the last one.”

Sigurd’s usual levity was gone, replaced by a keen alertness. To Leonard, he seemed very curious but entirely unknowing of what they had found. He wondered if it was the truth or just an act by a skilled spy. "Do you know what this is, Grand Marshal?" The bard asked cautiously.

“I show not what the eye can see, but what the Eye can see.” Leonard read aloud, eyes fixed on the inscriptions on the mirror’s frame.

“So it is from another world!” Sigurd exclaimed in vindication, only to shut his mouth with an audible click. “Sorry, I got too excited. Please continue.” Leonard gave him a sidelong glance but didn’t chastise him. Instead, he continued reading the inscription, his voice low and measured. “The truth being revealed to all, only the Eye can see the Gods’ Judgment.”

Sigurd visibly vibrated with excitement at the implications, but for once, he restrained himself from immediately launching into speculation. Eleanor, on the other hand, looked thoroughly confused. The words held a weight she didn’t fully understand, and she instinctively looked to Leonard for guidance.

For a moment, the Grand Marshal remained silent, his eyes scanning the mirror and the inscriptions. Finally, he spoke, his tone serious and deliberate. "You two have done well. This discovery is invaluable, and you’ll be rewarded handsomely for your efforts.”

Sigurd and Eleanor exchanged a glance. This was very good news, but both sensed more to come.

"But," Leonard continued, his voice taking on a harder edge, "it would be wise to forget what you’ve seen here for your safety. This isn’t something you should be burdened with.”

Eleanor’s face fell. She had worked hard to get here, even going against the advice of her superiors and risking her life several times. Abandoning what she had sacrificed so much to reach must have felt wrong.

Before she could protest, Sigurd interjected, his usual playful tone gone. "It must be something huge then," he said slowly, almost as if thinking out loud. "I always suspected there were some deep, dark secrets held back from the masses, but if you’re saying this isn’t safe for us to know..." He trailed off, his eyes narrowing as he studied Leonard’s expression.

Leonard’s gaze locked onto the bard's, his eyes like steel. The weight of his stare was almost unbearable, and yet, Sigurd didn’t back down. His curiosity and determination were stronger than his fear. Emboldened by Sigurd’s resolve, Eleanor stood tall beside him, her confusion becoming a quiet defiance.

The air in the room was almost impossibly heavy, crackling with unspoken words. Leonard assessed them both, maintaining a stern look as he thought about what being honest here could lead to. But he could see that leaving them with so little information would only lead to recklessness—a risk he couldn’t afford, especially now.

It is out of the question to fully explain the system's intricacies to them. I haven’t even gone that far for Amelia. But they have already seen this. I could shuttle them to the backlines, where we can keep an eye on them and monitor who they talk to, but that’s likely to breed resentment. No, they already know too much. The best lie is wrapped in truth, and it’s not like I can casually upend their understanding of reality in a single sitting.

“It is widely understood that the Light enjoys order.” He began, earning two confused nods. This was basic knowledge, after all. “This explains Blessings, as they are a distinct step away from the natural order. It’s not a process that could happen without a driving force.” Again, this wasn’t anything too esoteric—just Temple teachings.

“Among the world’s great powers, this is understood to be a more nuanced process than most think.” And this was the tricky part. His first explanation to Amelia had been almost exactly the same, though she had required some demonstration without the help of a mystical artifact. She then proceeded to deduce much of what he knew on her own, but he wasn’t about to reveal everything today and didn’t expect the two to get so far without aid. “The Light categorizes us down to the smallest part to judge us with inhuman precision.”

“Ah.” The sound left Sigurd’s lips without realizing it, though he refrained from further interrupting.

“Yes, I can see you understand. This mirror is one of few artifacts capable of peering away from our layer of reality and into the Light. The runes on it are otherworldly simply because to craft such a thing, one needs an incredible connection to the Light, and who is known to have that reliably?”

“Heroes and Saints,” Eleanor murmured, earning a nod of approval.

“That is correct. What you are seeing there is a representation of what the Light thinks of you.” And that was the end of the explanation. Already, Leonard could see it would take some time for the two to digest the information, though weirdly enough, he suspected the girl would come to terms with it faster. Sigurd was likely to spend a long time thinking about all the implications and then some more brooding himself into knots.

“I’m sure you’ll have some questions once you have had some time to digest this, and if I have the time, I’ll make sure to answer what I can, but for the moment, I’ll need an oath from the both of you to never speak to anyone else without my express permission, of what you’ve learned here. I’m sure you understand why knowledge of such artifacts can be a significant asset.” Leonard’s tone was placid, but his eyes pinned the two down, pressing on their souls in an inescapable grip.

"We understand," Eleanor finally said, if a bit unsteady. Sigurd nodded in agreement, though there was a flicker of something more in his gaze—a curiosity not yet sated but tempered by caution.

"Good," Leonard said, his tone softening slightly. "Now, repeat after me.”

“I stand before you with the Light as my witness, and I swear upon its eternal truth that I shall never speak of, nor reveal through any means, the knowledge I have gained here within this chamber. I vow to keep these secrets hidden from all, save for those explicitly permitted by Leonard Weiss. I shall take no action that could lead to transmitting this knowledge directly or indirectly. Should I falter or break this vow, I accept whatever judgment and consequence the Light deems just. By the Light, this oath is bound, and upon my soul, it shall be held.” As they spoke, the chamber seemed to grow deathly still. A faint, ethereal glow descended upon them, the Light responding to their words. The glow coalesced into thin, shimmering threads that encircled their bodies, barely visible but undeniably present.

But Leonard wasn’t done. He reached out, his hand cutting through the air with purpose, and grabbed hold of the Light itself. Eleanor and Sigurd gasped in unison as they felt the threads respond, thickening and solidifying into chains of pure, radiant energy. They wound tighter, embedding themselves deeper into their very beings, binding them to their oath in a way that felt as tangible as any physical restraint.

There would be no getting out of this.

Chapter 89 - Treon's War Council - Leonard 34

"You know we could have just disappeared them, right?"

Leonard snorted, shaking his head in amusement. Amelia's sense of humor was quite dark, but it never failed to draw him from his moods. "They have no faults. Indeed, they have done us a great favor. The mirror falling into enemy hands would have been terrible, and even if they never managed to take it out of Treon, leaving it unused is a terrible waste."

There, that should be enough tacit approval for her to use it without having to sneak around. Knowing how curious she can be, she wouldn't have lasted a day, but I can't just assign such a precious artifact to her personal use—which is what she'd take it as if I gave her direct permission.

From the slow, languid blink of satisfaction, Amelia knew precisely what he was doing and was probably already anticipating what having such a precise gauge of her strength and weakness could do to her growth.

It's not that big of a deal at our level, where we already know almost everything about our strength, but for promising novices… Yeah, I'll have to ensure Gerard and Jean get some time with it. We need to accelerate the production of our elites.

A sharp knock on the door abruptly halted their silent conversation. It creaked open slightly, and a guard peeked in, obviously not relishing having to interrupt. "Grand Marshal, it's time for the War Council."

Leonard nodded, rising from his chair. "Thank you, Edmund. We'll be right there."

Amelia followed suit, moving fluidly and almost predatorily as she adjusted the cloak draped over her shoulders. "This is the first full War Council since the conquest of Treon," she mused as they walked out. “We can’t delay."

The sound of boots against stone echoed through the corridors as they passed by various officers and attendants, each pausing to offer respectful nods or salutes. Leonard noted how some of the old decorations had been removed and the Count's colors replaced by the insignias of the new regime. He’d have to ensure historical artifacts weren’t thrown away just out of spite.

Soon, they arrived at a large drawing room. Inside, Leonard had his men place a massive oaken table that dominated the space, polished to a shine and surrounded by high-backed chairs. The room was already occupied, as they could hear the quiet exchanges of the other Council members who had arrived before them.

Neer sat at the table's center, reading over a thick stack of reports—an entirely different person from the half-feral woman Leonard had rescued. Gerard and Gareth were in the midst of a low conversation, likely discussing tactics or training regimens, as they often did. The newest and youngest member of the War Council, Jean, crouched in her chair, tongue poking out of her lips in concentration as she scribbled something on a piece of paper.

Even Old Lia was present, having brought to Treon a contingent of alchemists she had recruited for their cause. She stood by the window, her hands clasped behind her back, gazing out over the castle grounds with a contemplative expression.

As Leonard and Amelia entered the room, everyone rose from their seats in a gesture of respect. "Grand Marshal," Neer greeted, warm yet formal, "we're ready when you are."

Leonard nodded to each of them, a satisfied smile tugging at his lips. "Thank you all for gathering. Let's get started."

He and Amelia took their places at the head of the table, Leonard at the center with Amelia opposite him. The room fell into a hush, the soft creak of chairs and the rustle of paper the only sounds as everyone settled into their seats.

"The War Council is now in session," Leonard announced.

He then gestured to Neer, signaling her to start. The half-orc warrior stood, commanding the room's attention. Hers was the most critical report.

"Security in Treon is stable but still fragile," She began, looking around the table to meet everyone's eyes. "We've uncovered two major conspiracies—groups plotting to retake the city, mostly made of previous City Watch and noble's household guards who have since lost their cushy jobs. We've arrested the members of one group since it seemed the closest to acting and could have genuinely done some damage, but we've let the other continue operating for now. They believe they're unnoticed, and we're using that to monitor their movements and contacts. It's a delicate situation—one wrong move could send them underground, making them harder to track, but I believe this to be the correct path."

Leonard already knew of this, having been informed in his morning briefing and having given the go-ahead, but it was good to keep everyone appraised.

A more paranoid leader would have prevented the broader council from learning of such a security risk, but Leonard trusted these people. He had hand-picked them for a reason, and no one had given him a hint he had made a mistake.

Honestly, I'm the one who made the worst mistakes so far.

"On the civilian side, the arrival of food supplies has been a turning point. Regular distribution beyond army rations has started, and it's been met with relief and gratitude, especially from the poorest parts of the city, since belts were starting to tighten beyond what we know to be the tipping point for unrest. We're now seeing long lines at the employment offices and recruitment booths, which is a good sign that people are beginning to trust our presence here. But this can change quickly if we don't keep up the effort or sufficiently reward those who took the plunge. I believe we should set aside another tranche of two thousand gold per year to increase salaries, as it will be much more appreciated than anything else we can currently do. Deeper trust will take a long time to build, but this is a good way of halting the worst elements from finding purchase."

There were murmurs of agreement around the table. Leonard caught Amelia's eye and saw her subtle nod of approval. Her influence was all over the success Neer was reporting, and he doubted the SF would have been as successful in rooting out conspiracies without the aid of Amelia's shadows.

Her part done, Neer sat down, satisfied. Leonard knew she'd have to report failures or losses one day, but for the moment, he enjoyed hearing her be so proud of herself.

Next to stand up and give his report was Gerard. "Treon and the Serpent Sea Belt are secure for now, but we can't get comfortable," he said, back straight and tone uncompromising. "We need a strong, permanent force here to defend against external threats. Garva is likely to be the first to make a move once they deal with the latest wave of barbarians at the Death Pass; they've always had their eyes on expansion, having enjoyed lording their economic advantage to squeeze us dry and now that it's clear our rebellion is more than just a local uprising, they'll be looking for any opportunity to attack."

Gerard looked at Leonard, the question hanging in the air. "We can't stay here forever, as Count Pollus is inching closer every day, and we'll have to move out soon if we want to catch him in favorable terrain. We need someone here who can lead—someone you trust to manage operations and keep our borders safe."

Leonard nodded thoughtfully. "I agree. We'll discuss it more later, but it's crucial that we choose the right person for the job. I have great plans for Treon, from using its industrial strength to support our efforts to serving as the temporary cultural center of the Revolution." Leonard already knew who he would appoint. Gerard was the natural choice—his experience, understanding of the broader security situation, and unwavering loyalty made him the perfect fit. But the formal decision could wait for a private conversation, as he didn't want to put the man on the spot. Leonard would at least consider it if Gerard had someone else he trusted enough to give them command.

Seeing that he was done, Jean, the youngest and perhaps most eager of the council members, hesitated only briefly before raising her hand. "Grand Marshal, may I speak?" she asked.

Leonard nodded, giving her the floor. "Go ahead."

She stood, her small stature almost swallowed by the oversized chair, but the determination in her red eyes made her presence impossible to ignore. "I've been thinking about our current state of magical education," she began, rushed but clear. "The Magic Tower here in Treon is functional but outdated. Their methods are effective, but they limit the potential of the mages they produce. I believe we can do better—much better."

Jean paused, nervously twirling a white lock of hair and letting her words sink in before she continued. "I propose expanding the Magic Tower and turning it into an Academy that isn't just a place to train basic casters but a place to forge the best mages this kingdom has ever seen. To do that, though, I need your permission to overhaul the entire curriculum—start from scratch. I want to discard the old ways and introduce methods and techniques I have developed independently. It's a risk, I know, as they have only been tested on the handful of students I had, but I'm confident that if we succeed, we'll have a force of mages capable of changing the course of this war and beyond."

The room fell silent as Jean finished, her gaze fixed on Leonard, waiting for his reaction. He leaned back in his chair, considering her proposal. He could see the fire in her eyes, the passion that drove her, and he knew this was more than just an academic ambition. Jean had suffered significantly under the old system and was asking him to allow her to scrap it. Also, it was likely a way of finding a place for the innumerable orphans she kept adding to her collection.

After a moment in which the girl clenched her fists, looking like she was waiting for her execution, Leonard's lips curved into a wide grin. "You have my permission," he said, the words met with a shuddering breath of relief. "But remember, Jean, this is uncharted territory. You'll have full support, but the responsibility is enormous."

Jean's face lit up with a mix of relief and excitement. "Thank you, Grand Marshal. I won't let you down."

With Jean's proposal settled, the room's attention turned to Lia, who had been quietly observing from her seat by the window. She took her time standing up, putting on a pretense of needing her cane. "The southern towns are calm for now," she croaked. "However, we've identified numerous spies trying to infiltrate our ranks. They're from the rest of Haylich and other interested parties. They're only gathering intelligence for the moment, trying to gauge our strength and intentions."

Lia's expression darkened slightly as she continued. "I've compiled a list of all those we've identified and deemed safe enough to leave to their jobs and have already passed it on to Damien. As you might have noticed, he's not here today. That's because he's handling the arrival of a very special guest. I'll update you as soon as there's more to share."

With the reports delivered and the council's business nearing its end, Leonard stood, drawing everyone's attention. "We've made great strides. But there is still much to be done. We are engaged in a struggle that will define the future of this land, and it will require all our strength, wisdom, and resolve. We cannot afford to falter or lose sight of our goals. We fight not just for victory but for the hope of a better tomorrow, where the chains of tyranny are broken and the light of freedom shines bright. Let us remember why we're here and what we're fighting for. Together, we will shape the course of history."

A cheer broke out, and Leonard raised a fist in triumph. The second part of the Hetnia Campaign was about to start.

Chapter 90 - Diplomacy - Damien 2

Most of the time, Leonard allowed him to see about his duties without interference. Damien genuinely appreciated this, as he didn't think he'd have been able to accomplish as much as he had if he had to worry about explaining the how and why of his every action.

He knew his brain worked in unconventional ways. Actions that would have seemed counterproductive at best and heinous at worst to others were just par for the course for him.

Establishing spy rings and contacts among noble households, as well as removing the most dangerous members of society, was a difficult and thankless task. Still, Damien accomplished it all with a smile on his face. He did it for a reason, after all. He had seen the Light.

Occasionally, however, his friend, mentor, and leader gave him specific tasks. He was still afforded some leeway, but most of his steps were already prepared ahead of time, and this was when he realized just how far ahead Leonard had seen.

Being the most diplomatic of the War Council, he was the obvious choice when it came to entreating with foreign countries on the few occasions the Grand Marshal couldn't be present, and Old Lia's meddling didn't suffice.

Waiting for the foreign ship to moor with his assembled group of clean-shaven soldiers that had slowly started acting as a barebones diplomatic corp, Damien was forced to reassess how well he had understood the Light's Chosen again.

The brisk sea breeze tugged at his robes, and he watched the ship maneuver into place with precise movements, evidently aided by a water mage he couldn't quite detect.

The vessel was sleek and imposing, bearing the crest of the Brander Republic—a silver sunburst set against a field of deep blue. Painted in a single spell by a high-tier artist, if Damien wasn't mistaken.

You don't see this kind of thing often in Haylich. Very few people care enough to bother, and the price is just not worth it for an almost identical job. But Brander is all about subtle and overt messaging. It makes sense they'd send the first diplomatic mission to the Revolution decked in enough understated wealth to make a Duke green in envy. It doesn’t hurt that it’s the kind of wealth that cannot be stolen.

It was a subtle declaration that Damien made sure to take note of. He had already prepped for this mission by reading through all the available tomes, but Brander's high society was almost entirely unknown in Haylich beyond speculation and foolish tales. The merchants that traded through the Serpent Sea helped put together a battle plan, but they didn't have all the answers he wanted. For that, he needed to be more direct in his pursuits.

The ship came to a smooth stop, and a gangplank was lowered. As was the custom for men of the sea, the captain and the dock master exchanged a few words in broken Elven, coming to an agreement quite quickly since the tax had been waived as a gesture of goodwill.

One by one, members of the delegation began to disembark. Most of them were as Damien expected—diplomats clad in stylish yet practical robes adorned with symbols indicating their roles and areas of expertise. He saw emblems representing local history, language, and law studies—precisely what to expect for such a delegation. It made him nervous.

However, two figures stood out from the rest. The first was a teenage girl with short green hair and black eyes, her robes marked with the insignia of an acolyte of Metal Magic. But what drew Damien's attention wasn't her age but the intricacy of the symbols on her attire—she was far more advanced than her youthful appearance suggested if his cobbled understanding of their internal rankings was correct.

That's always a problem with relying on second or tertiary evidence. You can only infer so much before you start hitting a wall.

The second figure was a stark contrast to the girl. An old man descended the gangplank with an air of frailty, his movements slow and deliberate. Compared to the other diplomats, he appeared to be the least interesting one, and indeed, the men Damien had begun to teach seemed to share this assessment as they studied the others intently.

Yet, it was his plain robes that made Damien's eyes narrow in suspicion. Midnight black, with a single silver eye stitched onto his chest—the All Seeing Eye. Damien wasn't an expert on Branderi mages, but even he knew that only the most skilled and dangerous were granted the honor of wearing that symbol. This man was no mere diplomat, if he was even an elder and not an illusion mage playing around.

Damien's instincts urged him to focus on himself. Leonard had warned him that there would be a special guest, and he had no doubt this was it.

Not a hint of excess mana escaped the man. Only enough to paint him as a frail elder barely capable of sustaining his body. The incongruity with his presence on such a critical mission alone would have singled him out as a person of interest.

As the last of the delegation stepped onto solid ground, Damien stepped forward, offering a shallow bow—enough to be respectful but not deep enough to be mistaken as subservience.

"Welcome to Treon," he said smoothly. "I am Damien, a humble Vicar of the Temple of the Light, and I have been assigned to ensure your stay here is both comfortable and productive."

"Thank you for welcoming us, Mr. Damien. I am Enteran Yullen, and I speak for the whole delegation when I say we are here with the greatest hope that our relationship will continue to grow." The tallest diplomat answered, pulling Damien's attention away from the old man.

If he's letting the others speak, he might want to play a game. Or he might actually just be here to observe… No, it’s something else.

"I wholeheartedly share your sentiment, Mr. Yullen," Damien said, briefly meeting the man's eyes. He then turned to the others, acknowledging them with nods before gesturing to the soldiers standing at attention nearby. “These men will see to your luggage and ensure everything is brought to your new residence."

Before the soldiers could move, Yullen halted them in their tracks with a raised hand. "That won't be necessary, Vicar Damien. Our needs have already been arranged." His tone was polite but firm, leaving little room for argument.

Damien raised an eyebrow, slightly off-kilter by the refusal. He wasn't accustomed to being so casually dismissed in his own territory, but he quickly recovered, recalling Leonard's advice to go with the flow. "Of course," he replied smoothly, waving the soldiers back. "If you have any further needs, however, do not hesitate to ask."

The diplomat inclined his head, and Damien turned to lead them away from the docks. The journey to the noble district was marked by his showing this or that local sightseeing spot, save for the occasional polite exchange between the Branderi and the few townsfolk brave enough to approach them. The city was still adjusting to its new rulers, and the sight of foreign diplomats was yet another reminder of the changing times.

Still, no one made any trouble, and they quickly arrived at the manse that had been set aside for the delegation. It was a stately building, its stone facade bearing the marks of old wealth and power. Damien had ensured it was well-prepared, with luxurious furnishings and ample space for their work.

"I trust this residence will meet your needs," Damien said as they reached the entrance, gesturing for them to enter. Yullen paused, scanning the building with an unreadable expression before he nodded. "It will do, Vicar Damien. We appreciate your efforts."

The manse was grander than one might expect for a temporary residence, but that was precisely the point. He wanted the Branderi to feel the weight of Haylich's wealth and power, even if the Revolution's hold on the city was still fresh. Its size should also mean greater ease in slipping people in, though something told him it wouldn't be easy.

As they moved from room to room, Damien gestured to various amenities. "A full staff of local volunteers has been arranged for your convenience. They are well-versed in both Branderi customs and the particularities of our city. Should you need anything, they are at your disposal."

The delegation members exchanged glances, their faces revealing little. Just as Damien was about to continue, Yullen stepped in. "That won't be necessary, Vicar Damien. We will handle our own affairs."

The refusal was swift and final, and Damien noticed the subtle gesture that accompanied it—a slight hand movement from the old man in the midnight robes. The other diplomats didn't seem to notice, but it was apparent now that he was looking.

Damien met the elder's gaze, catching the glint of something unspoken in his eyes. It was a look of acknowledgment, and the old man gave a slow nod.

Damien said nothing more on the matter, merely adding another oddity to the tally, and chose to lead them through the rest of the mansion instead. He showed the diplomats the opulent dining hall, the well-appointed meeting rooms, and the private quarters that had been carefully prepared for each delegation member—just as he had hoped. This led to some muttering as the men wondered how he had known in advance about their number.

All the while, he maintained his composed demeanor, masking the undercurrent of unease he felt at being subtly rebuffed twice in a matter of minutes.

Finally, the tour concluded in a spacious drawing room with large windows overlooking an inner garden. Damien turned to the delegation, offering a small bow. "I hope you find everything to your satisfaction. Please take this time to rest and recover from your journey. Our discussions will begin tomorrow, focusing on the proposed trade agreements between our nations."

The diplomats stated their thanks, and Damien made to leave. However, as he reached the entrance hall, a strange sensation tugged at him—an almost imperceptible pull that led his feet to a side room he had not intended to enter.

Opening the door, he was not entirely surprised to find the old man and the young green-haired acolyte already seated within. The room was modest compared to the rest of the mansion, its walls lined with bookshelves and a single window letting in the soft afternoon light.

The elder looked up as Damien entered, his face an unreadable mask. The girl, however, let out a small, disappointed snort. "I told you he wouldn't be surprised," she muttered petulantly.

Damien remained placid, closing the door behind him with deliberate care. "I was expecting something of the sort," he said calmly, meeting her dark gaze with steady composure.

"You must like danger, Vicar Damien. Not many would walk so confidently into what might seem like a trap."

Damien inclined his head slightly. "Experience has taught me to expect the unexpected. And to face it head-on. Darkness rots and festers if not cleansed with the Light."

The girl leaned back in her chair, arms crossed. "Well, you're not as much fun as I hoped," she said, though her eyes sparkled with amusement.

"I aim to please," Damien replied with a hint of dry humor. "Now, what can I do for you both?"

"I am Marzio Etinus, and this is my granddaughter, Lamberta." The old man replied, "We have heard much about the Revolution, about its rapid rise and unexpected military victories. You seem to have turned the tide against forces many thought unbeatable in your condition."

Damien smiled faintly, recognizing the opening move in what promised to be a complex game of verbal sparring. "It's a pleasure to meet you both. We have been fortunate, Mr. Etinus. And we have been guided by a leader with unparalleled vision."

Lamberta's eyes narrowed slightly. "Fortunate, you say. But fortune only carries one so far. There is something more at play here beyond mere luck or skill. Is it true that your leader has never lost a battle?"

Damien's smile didn't waver. "The Grand Marshal is indeed undefeated. His understanding of warfare, both conventional and otherwise, is unmatched."

"Unmatched," Marzio echoed softly as if tasting the word. "A bold claim. I like boldness. Let's hope I'll like this bold man just as much."

Chapter 91 - Treaties are Battlefields - Damien 3

“Marzio Etinus is an Archmage.”

Damien hummed to show he had heard. It was good to have official confirmation, but he already knew as much. Few people could hope to take over his senses like that, and while the girl might have supplied the mana, it was the old man who directed the spell.

Such a thing could have rightly been construed as an attack on a Revolutionary Councilor. It certainly was enough to ask for damages, and historically, it had been the basis of many a regional war.

Damien hadn’t demanded either. It wasn’t that he didn’t care about being attacked. He was furious and had to employ all his not-inconsiderable self-control to avoid reacting in anger. But his own wants and needs had long since become secondary in his quest to see the world’s order restored.

“Why are you not saying anything? We have a foreign Master in the city doing who knows what, and you don’t care?”

Giving up his attempt to puzzle out a particularly annoying spell configuration, Damien sighed and turned to Eleanor.

He appreciated the girl. He genuinely did. She had proven talented and eager to learn, was bold and daring when needed, and knew not to overreach. He couldn’t ask for a better apprentice. Her little crush notwithstanding, she was perfect, and even that could be turned into a new lesson. But she had the annoying habit of constantly seeking new information no matter the circumstance, which meant she rarely gave him time to slowly work his way around a problem like he enjoyed doing.

“He’s not a Master.” He finally replied.

Eleanor blinked in confusion. “I’m pretty sure he is. I know some Tower Masters are Experts, owing to the lack of local Masters, but in a place as powerful as Brander, I doubt that’s very common. Also, I found references to one Etinus the Tidebreaker that matches his description from around seventy years ago.”

“Still not a Master.”

Eleanor tilted her head, gears turning. She took a deep breath, and her eyes widened comically. “A Champion?!” She almost shrieked, though she had the presence of mind to avoid it at the last second.

“Indeed. A strong one, too. I didn’t recognize him at first because he didn’t let me. But as soon as I was out of his spell range, I immediately realized who he was. Marzio Etinus was once known as the Tidebreaker for defending the old Brander Kingdom from the Depths seventy years ago. He’s also known by a different name in recent times: The Mage of Broken Ties.”

Not an auspicious name for someone sent to open diplomatic talks with a new nation, but Damien wasn’t the kind to be scared by nicknames. Yes, Etinus deserved the name. He had ascended to Champion by single-handedly destroying the enormous Geas that bound the Branderi army to its King, thus allowing the nation to fall into civil war. It was also the right thing to do, as the soldiers had become little more than slaves at the whims of a madman.

It was because of this that the rest of the local nations stopped enacting oaths to enforce loyalty and leaned into slavery for the unwashed masses and into privilege for the nobility.

Some would say that he was the single starting cause of the abusive situation they were currently in, but Damien didn’t have such a reductive, simplistic vision of history. Tyrants did what tyrants would do. Just because slave collars were currently more common than ever, it didn’t mean that people didn’t suffer before their rise. Yes, the horrors visited upon the modern slaves were much more significant than most could comprehend. Being cut away from the Light was a sin beyond words. But their material suffering was mostly the same.

Etinus was not a good person. He also wasn’t evil. A particularly difficult-to-read shade of grey would be the best description.

“If you know that, it means you already have contingencies in place. Why did you send me to look through the library if you already knew?” Eleanor asked, frustrated.

Damien merely smiled, tilting his head, allowing the morning light to catch his eyes and give him a holy glow. The girl, predictably, blushed and backed down without him needing to explain. She’d kick herself for it later and push to become immune to his charms, which was incidentally excellent training.

The diplomatic talks would be held in the beautiful mansion once owned by Admiral Dunster. While the nascent Revolutionary Navy had taken the barracks by the docks for itself and was busy refitting the few ships left behind to meet the high standards of those that had been captured during the campaign, General Dortmund had decreed that they didn’t need to waste time and money maintaining the many officers’ residences sprinkled around Treon. Only those closest to the docks were kept, and the rest were put into the pool of available resources to the other departments.

Damien hadn’t hesitated to snap the villa up as soon as he laid eyes on it.

While officially only the Spiritual Advisor to the Grand Marshal, he also led the propaganda efforts and, as of late, the Foreign Affairs office alongside the old alchemist.

As a result of all the work piling up on his desk, he didn’t feel bad about getting his hands on the most beautiful of the local manses.

Painted tiles gave each room and corridor a unique feeling and story, showing everything from the founding of Treon to the naval victories of the Southern Navy Group. The artistic value alone made it worth preserving, but Damien had other plans.

As soon as the Branderi delegation had been settled into their quarters, he summoned hand-picked clerks who had shown themselves capable of following his orders to the letter. Every chair, every painting, and every piece of furniture had to be placed with the utmost care. The aim was not simply to impress but to unsettle.

He had studied the layout of Brander’s Sage Council Palace through remote viewing—which had required all his persuasiveness to pull off, as the divination division was very busy scouting the northern paths these days. It was a place Damien shouldn’t have known about in such detail, but all the delegation members should have recognized it easily. He wanted the diplomats to walk into the mansion and feel the uncanny familiarity of a place that should have been entirely out of bounds. He wanted them off-balance from the moment they set foot inside.

I’m also man enough to admit it’s at least in part revenge for the little trick they played on me. But only in part. I couldn’t react overtly to it, but simply taking the abuse would set a terrible precedent.

Chairs were arranged in deliberate patterns, paintings selected to echo the white and blues that dominated the Sage Council Palace. Everything was meticulously placed to mimic the grandiosity and subtle messaging of Brander’s seat of government. He even went so far as to have the large ballroom converted into a grand meeting room, complete with a massive table at its center that was a one-to-one replica of the Branderi government’s council room. Each chair was engraved with the name of a diplomat, a personal touch designed to technically convey respect while asserting subtle dominance.

When the final adjustments were made, Damien walked through the mansion, checking every detail. Even as the Branderi waited outside, he walked the path the diplomats would take from the grand entrance hall to the ballroom, just to see if he had missed something. His clerks followed at a distance, ready to move anything that didn’t meet his exacting standards.

He paused before one of the large tapestries that adorned the corridor. The scene depicted was the only piece out of sync with the rest of the stage: the failed crossing of the Scale River, the natural border between Brander and Haylich. He wondered if anyone would notice.

With everything ready, he gave the order to allow the delegates in. Damien greeted them with the same composed politeness he had shown at the docks. He led them through the mansion, carefully examining their reactions. It didn’t take long before he noticed the subtle signs of confusion—furrowed brows, sideways glances, and hushed whispers. They recognized something but couldn’t quite place it.

As they entered the ballroom, Damien could see the moment realization dawned on them. A few exchanged quick, uneasy looks, shaken by the unsettling familiarity of their surroundings. The old Champion didn’t bat an eye save for a quirked eyebrow, though Damien hadn’t expected to get anything from him. Beyond his magical power, the man was likely a fine politician. He wouldn’t make such a mistake and likely expected something in retaliation.

Damien’s lips curved into a faint smile when the youngest of the delegation snorted harshly upon entering. Ah, to be so brash.

“Please, be seated,” he gestured to the table, where the engraved chairs awaited. “We have much to discuss. I trust the accommodations were to your liking.”

The diplomats took their seats, some more cautiously than others, possibly expecting another surprise. As if Damien would be so foolish as to repeat the same pattern twice.

“We stand at a pivotal moment in history,” Damien began, taking his place between the clerks he had assembled. “Our nations both know intimately the yoke of tyranny. We understand the tragedy the people are put through for the sake of cold, unfeeling rulers. Today, we seek to establish relationships founded on respect, fairness, and shared prosperity exactly because of that mutual understanding.”

His words were carefully chosen, designed to echo the rhetoric Leonard employed when speaking to outsiders. However, they also pulled on the Brander Republic’s greatest weakness: its complete diplomatic isolation from its neighbors as the only local nation to ban slavery.

“We thank you for the warm welcome and vow to participate in these talks with honesty and integrity, forever thinking of the People,” Yullen answered, still keeping up the facade of being the delegation’s leader. Damien didn’t mind. It made things more interesting.

The discussions then turned to the practical matters of trade. Damien drove a hard bargain on the goods the Revolution needed to sell the most—food and mana crystals. Damien was in a strong position with a large vein of mana crystals recently discovered outside Treon. He pushed for lower tariffs, arguing that the abundance of this valuable resource would benefit both nations if they could establish favorable trade terms on even just a single good. It would serve as a precedent for the future even if they didn’t hammer everything out right now.

“We have the capability to provide mana crystals in substantial quantities,” Damien repeated, locking eyes with Yullen. “But it is imperative that excessive tariffs do not overburden our people.”

“Tariffs are the wall that protects local markets from being flooded with cheap exports.” The Branderi replied unflaggingly. “Your discovery of a significant mana vein is good for all and will surely bring you prosperity, but you must understand that we have carefully curated our local prices. Allowing you to enter our markets without softening the blow with tariffs would see our producers out of business.”

Ugh, protectionism. They had no problem charging us through the nose when we could only buy, but now that we have some leverage, they are suddenly worried about the consequences.

But the real challenge came when the discussion turned to enchantment materials. Brander had an abundance of these, but their prices were notoriously high. Damien knew this was the one thing he could not do without—enchantment materials were crucial for the Revolution’s ongoing efforts to secure their position. Hetnia had only the Darkwood as a source, and while efforts to ensure a steady supply were ongoing, they couldn’t abuse it too heavily lest they incur the Guardian’s wrath. Most of Haylich’s came from Nevielle and Mossovy, and the northern Duchies were unlikely to sell to rebels.

Leaning forward, Damien played his hand. “We understand the value of these materials, and we are prepared to offer something in return that is of great interest to Brander—the knowledge of Pure Casting.”

Chapter 92 - Watch Your Mouth - Damien 4

There was a moment of stunned silence following his offer. Damien had expected it and placidly waited until the Branderi delegates worked out he was serious.

His own men struggled to keep their composure despite being alerted in advance.

It was a big deal, what he was offering. Pure Casting was a specialty of Haylich, developed only a few years ago, and no one else had managed to work it out. Many had tried, but the results were abysmal without fully understanding its underlying theory.

And everyone wanted to get their hands on it. Not because it was a game-changer during normal times. It was well understood that Pure Casting would be roughly equivalent to the common schools unless one mastered it to a high degree. But against the Void, it was the difference between life and death. And the Void wasn’t the only threat that resisted most spells.

Damien was sure the Hammerfest warmages would sell their firstborn to get their hands on it, if only because of the advantage it would grant them in their push south, where the Silent Peaks prevented most magic from actualizing.

Many efforts had been made to steal the secret, and incredible wealth had been offered to those few who could reliably use it.

None had taken the offer. King Vasily had been wise enough to order Lady Jean to teach it only to those members of the nobility who had passed extremely stringent loyalty tests. And even then, without the girl who had made it all possible, only a cursory understanding was possible.

But now things had changed. Lady Jean had been ordered to teach more people—young scions of noble houses— and while the Revolutionary Council didn’t believe they would spread the knowledge, the more people knew about something, the easier it was to leak.

There is also the fact that the more people know about it, the less will die when the Void next shows its ugly mug. Leonard said it’s only worth something now and that holding onto it is like holding onto sand. Sooner or later, it will slip away from our fingers.

“Has someone else cracked it, then?” An aged voice broke the silence.

“That’s not the case, as far as we are aware. Many have tried, but they lack knowledge of the fundamentals.” Damien replied calmly. He knew Etinus would be interested but hadn’t expected him to break the farce yet.

“Don’t try to take us for a ride, boy. I’ll know immediately if something is fishy.” Staring down a Champion was not something Damien relished, but as the tension in the room reached its peak, another presence made itself known.

Visibility faded away as a passing cloud covered the sun. Open windows banged close without a gust of wind. Pupils dilated in fear. The sudden shift in the room’s atmosphere was so intense Damien felt a bead of sweat drip down his back. The Branderi diplomats, already tense from the audacious offer, now found themselves plunged into a deepening gloom. The light seemed to drain from the room, replaced by thick, oppressive shadows that pressed down upon their souls.

Etinus immediately reacted, standing up as his own aura surged in response. The air around him shimmered with power, his blue-white mana clashing with the new presence. Such was the overwhelming strength he brought to bear that Damien wouldn’t be surprised if the entire city could feel it. Though he doubted Lady Amelia would allow such a disruption.

Through it all, Damien remained still, a faint smile playing on his lips as if he were a mere spectator, amused at an intense play. He had expected Amelia to make an appearance—she had a knack for dramatic entrances—but even he hadn’t anticipated the intensity of her arrival.

The Branderi diplomats began to tremble, their faces ghostly white as the weight of the two powerful auras pressed down on them. Sweat beaded on their foreheads, and a few seemed on the verge of fainting. The room was filled with strained breathing, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife.

Then, just as the pressure became almost unbearable, it broke.

Etinus’s laughter echoed through the room, a deep, booming sound that startled everyone. He slapped a hand on the table, his aura receding as he grinned at the source of the darkness. “Well now, lass, you’ve got spirit! It’s been a while since I had to be the one to back down. Any longer, and we would have had casualties.”

Amelia stepped fully into the room, also pulling back her presence. The light returned as if drawn to her, casting her in a soft, ethereal glow. Her beauty was breathtaking, a combination of delicate features and an undeniable power that left the Branderi delegates momentarily speechless.

Her dress, a deep, purplish black that was hard to look away from, contrasted sharply with her pale skin. She didn’t wear any ostentatious jewelry or finery that might have been expected of someone in her position. Instead, she was simplicity itself—except for the aura of sheer, overwhelming power that clung to her like a second skin. “We have paladins capable of casting [Resurrection] if that ever happens.” She replied, drawing a disbelieving chuckle from Etinus’ granddaughter. The girl didn’t say anything, though Damien made a note that she had weathered the pressure much better than men three times her age.

With a small, almost imperceptible gesture, Amelia conjured a chair from the shadows that lingered at the edges of the room. It was elegant, made of a dark material that almost flowed as it solidified into shape and appeared beside Damien.

She took a seat gracefully, lifting her chin in that familiar, imperious way of hers, and looked directly at him. “Proceed.”

Damien almost rolled his eyes but caught himself. Instead, he gave her a polite nod. “Thank you for passing by, Lady Amelia. Your presence is always a comfort.”

She didn’t respond, only smiled slightly, a gesture that could have been genuine or mocking—it was always hard to tell with her. She made no move to leave, however, clearly intending to stay.

Etinus guffawed again, clearly amused by the interaction.

The Branderi delegates were still trying to regain their composure, some discreetly dabbing their foreheads with handkerchiefs. The sudden lightness in the room after the intense mana clash was almost disorienting, and they had to stifle gasps as they took in Amelia’s appearance. Even the most seasoned among them couldn’t hide their admiration or awe at her beauty and presence.

“Are we so isolated that no one would come running after that?” Yullen asked after taking a deep breath, though he deliberately kept his gaze away from his superior.

“Of course, our privacy is assured. We wouldn’t want prying eyes to learn of the terms of our agreement.” Damien intervened before Amelia could stir the pot more. He appreciated her save, as he still wasn’t strong enough to stand up to an angry Champion, but her disregard for diplomacy could be troublesome.

He leaned forward slightly, calm and unruffled despite the tension that had filled the room moments before. “As I mentioned earlier, the offer of Pure Casting is still on the table. However, we hope it’s clear that the Revolution means business. We are serious about forming a mutually beneficial agreement, but we will not be treated as a junior member just because of how young we are as a nation.”

Yullen exchanged a glance with Etinus, whose cover as a simple delegate had been thoroughly blown. The Archmage seemed unfazed by the events, sharp eyes still gleaming with interest. Yullen cleared his throat. “We are indeed interested in this offer, provided that Archmage Etinus can confirm the knowledge,” he said, his tone respectful but firm. “Given the... unique nature of Pure Casting, we would require a demonstration or some verification before any formal agreements are signed.”

Damien nodded. “That can be arranged, though I assure you the knowledge is as described. Our conditions are simple: we require enchantment materials that Brander can easily provide, such as deep sea minerals and wasteland bones. There are also rarer items we seek, though we are flexible on the specifics.”

The Branderi delegates murmured among themselves, weighing the demands. Etinus stroked his chin thoughtfully, his gaze drifting toward Amelia, who remained silent and watchful. Her presence seemed to act as a buffer, preventing the Branderi from using intimidation tactics of their own.

Yullen looked back at Damien calculatingly. “The common materials you ask for are within our means to provide. However, the rarer items you seek— of which only the Abyssal Orchids and Infernal Ore we have available for sale in significant enough numbers—are more difficult to come by. They are not only rare but also highly coveted by our own mages and artisans.”

Damien expected the pushback. He was prepared to drive a hard bargain. “We understand their value, which is why we’re even willing to offer Pure Casting in exchange. However, we are open to discussing the specifics of the quantities and the timing of deliveries. We are not asking for an immediate flood of these resources but rather a steady supply over time.” His goal was to build a lasting relationship, after all. A quick buck might have made the Branderi more eager, but it wouldn’t help down the line. And Damien fully intended for the Revolution to last.

Etinus interrupted then, having come to a decision. “You drive a hard bargain, young man. But I respect that. How about this—we agree to supply the common materials in the quantities you request in exchange for a moderate flow of food and mana crystals. However, for the rarer items, we will provide a smaller initial batch, with further shipments contingent on the results of our mutual cooperation. This would ensure trust on both sides and allow us to assess the true value of this Pure Casting.”

Damien considered the offer carefully. It wasn’t ideal, but it was a reasonable compromise. The Revolution needed those materials, especially as their food and mana crystals production was beginning to hit its stride and would soon turn into a surplus. However, they also needed to establish a foothold in these negotiations without appearing desperate. “That’s acceptable,” he said finally. “But in return, we would require assurances that the materials will be delivered without delay. Any breach of this agreement would result in the immediate cessation of our end of the deal and of the knowledge exchange.”

While the bulk of the deal was worked out, the details still needed some haggling. The two sides continued negotiating, with the Branderi delegation pushing for more favorable terms regarding prices and quantity while Damien remained steadfast in his offer. Amelia’s silent presence loomed over the talks, constantly reminding all of the Revolution’s power. Eventually, an agreement was forged—one that didn’t leave anyone entirely happy but also didn’t upset either side enough to walk away.

The final terms were straightforward. Brander would supply the common enchantment materials immediately, with the first batch of Abyssal Orchids and Infernal Ore arriving within the next month. In exchange, the Revolution would take Lamberta Etinus as a ward and have her learn the intricacies of Pure Casting under Archmage Jean Franklin.

As the talks concluded for the day and the delegation prepared to leave, Etinus remained seated, his eyes lingering on Damien. “I’d like to meet with your Grand Marshal,” he said casually as if requesting a chat over tea.

Damien’s expression remained neutral, though inwardly, he was cautious. Leonard had said this would likely happen, especially after Amelia showed up, but he couldn’t just accept. “I will see if it’s possible,” he replied diplomatically. “The Grand Marshal’s schedule is quite demanding, but I will convey your request.”

Etinus smiled as if he knew something Damien didn’t. “I’m looking forward to it.”

Chapter 93 - Peer Behind the Curtain - Leonard 35

“He’s an arrogant asshat. You should ignore him and send him back to Brander without deigning him with your presence.”

Leonard nodded placidly, waiting for Amelia to work through her anger. She needed some time to get over her worst impulses, but she usually had good ideas once she did.

“And don’t smirk! That old, annoying… Ugh, I should have smeared him into a paste when he first attacked Damien. But no, we need to have good relations with Brander. No matter that Etinus is probably responsible for half of their deaths in the last century. I told you that allowing him to go scot-free after that provocation would lead to only more arrogance!”

Leonard ran a finger along the length of the new dagger he had acquired from a remarkably well-hidden safe in a Baron’s mansion. Who knew they’d still have dragon-scale weaponry around? After the Fatwa against draconic flesh being used by mortals, they were vanishingly rare. No one wanted to test if the magic still held up, even centuries later.

“And he had the gall to laugh at me after I put him back in his place! As if he wasn’t trying to intimidate and subjugate our diplomats! I told you that these people only understand violence and power. If the threat is too well hidden, they’ll feel free to do anything!”

Well, it seemed that Amelia had finally started airing out her actual grievances. “I agree with you that my initial estimate was wrong. I thought the decent relationship we built so far and the news of my downing a heavy airship would have made him warier to act out. It was a mistake.” He apologized, conceding the point. It didn’t cost him much. He had made a wrong call, and while Damien wasn’t harmed, what he was put through was still unacceptable.

“Good.” Amelia sighed, manic energy finally leaving her. She dropped bonelessly on an armchair, staring up at the painted ceiling. “I know you already know this, but we must be careful with that man. He might not be as strong as me or even close to you, but he has been the driving force behind everything in Brander for almost a century. He controls everything, no matter what they might like to say about being a democracy.”

Leonard lazily lifted a finger, causing the wine bottle he had prepared for the occasion to uncap and pour its contents into two crystal goblets. He sent one floating to Amelia with another flick, who grabbed it with a murmured thanks.

“I understand. Don’t worry. I have something in mind.” From the way her lips curled up, she seemed to get his gist.

A meeting between two Champions was something to behold. Two people who had reached a level that mortals could only dream of were naturally competitive. Their auras would clash, and they would battle for supremacy. Usually, this struggle would result in changed lands and many deaths.

But it didn’t often come to that. First of all, because Champions were extremely rare. Even powerful countries could only boast a handful in their ranks, and given their incredible might, they were not always willing to follow their king’s orders. Secondly, those who reached the fifth Blessing understood everything had a time and place.

Duking it out in the middle of a bustling city would lead to thousands, if not tens of thousands of deaths. The resentment alone such a massacre could create would lead to the birth of a new necropolis. And those were never fun to get rid of.

This was all to say that such meetings had to be carefully arranged. Amelia had known the risks before appearing at the talks and had ensured the clashing auras didn’t harm anyone outside the room. Even then, had Etinus wanted to cause trouble, no one could have guaranteed that Treon wouldn’t suffer for it.

Well, no one but me.

It might have seemed like an arrogant statement. Leonard was well aware that to anyone else, his carefree attitude at having to give a dressing down to the man who pulled the strings of an entire country might have seemed foolish. It wasn’t.

Leonard sat alone in the private study that had been meticulously prepared for this meeting—not the official one he stole from the Count and used for official business, but a more modest room where he could do some work. It was furnished with sturdy, well-made pieces resembling his grandfather’s own study. With a large wooden desk dominating the center, flanked by two high-backed chairs and shelves lined the walls, filled with old tomes and artifacts, he felt right at home.

The lighting was soft, casting gentle shadows that danced across the room, and the air hummed with the faintest trace of magic.

Jean had ensured the room was protected with several layers of powerful enchantments. The wards were subtle—barely noticeable unless one was an expert in runecraft—but undeniably present to someone with his guest’s experience. Anyone attuned to fifth-tier magic would feel the runes pulsing beneath the surface of the walls, woven into the very fabric of the room’s structure. It was a reverse bunker built in the middle of the castle, meant to contain almost anything a Champion could throw at it.

Leonard took his seat behind the desk, calm and composed. He ran a hand over the surface, feeling the smooth wood beneath his fingers as he waited. Patience was a virtue, and he had learned to cultivate it well over the years.

A knock at the door signaled his guest’s arrival. The door opened, and Marzio Etinus was allowed into the room by one of Leonard’s men. The door closed behind him with a soft click, sealing the two inside.

“Please, take a seat,” Leonard gestured to the chair opposite him. His voice was polite, almost casual, as if they were about to discuss nothing more pressing than the weather.

Etinus eyed the room warily, evidently having realized its purpose, before complying, lowering himself into the chair with deliberate slowness. He looked around, taking in the enchantments and protections with a knowing glance, before returning to Leonard. “I must say, I half-expected to be attacked after the little stunt I pulled. It’s not often someone lets me walk into their lair unscathed and even takes some abuse. Your girl seemed ready to flay me. I believed I’d have to fight my way out of here.” His tone was light. Unburdened. As if the possibility of making an enemy of a Hero didn’t bother him. It probably didn’t. The man was old enough to have been in his prime when the last Incursion happened in the West. He likely met the previous Hero.

Leonard allowed himself a small smile. “I’m not that crass, Archmage. We might need to discuss what happened earlier, but Brander is still an important ally. I wouldn’t just kill you without a good justification.”

Etinus chuckled, though there was an edge to it. “Good to know. I like boldness, but I was starting to think the new regime had a penchant for rashness. That leads to weak foundations. I built a country with my own hands, so I know. Take some advice from an old man. Sometimes, it’s better to bide your time and take some hazing.”

Leonard reached for the decanter on the desk, pouring a glass of wine for each of them. He pushed one across to Etinus, who accepted it with a nod. “To patience,” Leonard said, raising his glass.

“To patience,” Etinus echoed, though his tone was more cautious. He took a sip, his eyes never leaving Leonard.

The pleasantries, however, were merely a prelude. Leonard set his glass down and leaned back in his chair, intensely staring at his guest. He had pondered precisely how to do this and if Brander’s alliance and wariness were worth revealing so much. His power was still a secret to everyone but Amelia, and he hadn’t intended to reveal more so soon. But his friend was right that some things couldn’t be tolerated. Etinus had crossed a line. And though attacking him while holding back would surely put him in his place, it would give the man the false idea that he could win with enough preparation and help. Leonard couldn’t allow that thought to pass.

Thus, he opened the floodgates to his power, allowing the full force of his mana to escape his ironclad willpower for the first time since that last fight against the Incarnation of the Void.

The air in the room trembled as if the very fabric of reality had been twisted and stretched to its breaking point. Leonard’s mana flooded the space inexorably. The soft glow of the sun outside brightened until it was hard to look at. Shadows shortened unnaturally as if retreating from the overwhelming presence that now dominated the room.

The Light that Leonard wielded was no gentle radiance, no comforting beacon. It was the primordial Light, the first spark of creation, raw and unfiltered. It seared its way into existence with an intensity that defied comprehension, burning away the mundane and leaving only the purest essence in its wake. It revealed all, even the things mortals were not meant to see.

Etinus felt it first as a pressure on his chest, a weight that pressed down on him like the hand of a god. His breath caught in his throat, and he instinctively tried to muster his own mana in defense. But as he reached for his power, he found it smothered, swallowed by the torrent of Leonard’s energy that surged through the room like a tsunami. The walls, the ceiling, and the air seemed to pulse with an unnatural rhythm, beating in time with Leonard’s heart.

The old mage’s eyes widened, pupils dilating as his mind struggled to process what was happening. The Light was too bright, pure, and vast to be contained within a mortal vessel, yet it emanated from the man seated before him. Etinus had faced powerful foes before, had stared into the depths of Abyssal Magic and lived to tell the tale, and had even dueled with the previous Hero once, but this—this was something entirely different. The Light wasn’t just an element like many others; it was an entity, a force beyond the understanding of even the most learned scholars. Leonard had tapped into the essence of the cosmos, drawing forth a power that should have been lost to time.

In that moment, Etinus understood that what he was experiencing was not just power but the truth of the universe laid bare before him in all its terrible glory. The Light revealed every secret, hidden fear, and corner of his soul that he had kept locked away. It stripped him of his defenses, laid him bare, and exposed him to the cosmos’ infinite expanse. The room around him seemed to dissolve, replaced by a vast, swirling void of brilliant white light, punctuated by flashes of colors that had no names, shapes that defied geometry.

Etinus tried to speak, to summon a spell, to do anything, but the words caught in his throat turned to ash by the sheer magnitude of what he was witnessing. His body trembled, his muscles locking as Leonard’s power pinned him to the chair. He tried to look away, but there was nowhere to turn and hide from the all-encompassing Light that surrounded him. His eyes were wide, pupils blown out as they tried and failed to process the infinite within the finite.

The old man’s mind began to unravel at the edges, fraying under the strain of trying to comprehend the incomprehensible. He saw things—glimpses of realities beyond his own, visions of a world stripped of its illusion of order, where time and space were mere suggestions, and the laws of nature bent and twisted in the presence of something greater. The Light showed him the foundation of existence itself, the scaffolding upon which reality was built.

His breath came in ragged gasps, drool beginning to drip from the corner of his mouth as his body struggled to maintain its connection to the here and now. Every instinct screamed at him to flee, to escape this overwhelming presence, but his body was no longer his own. He was frozen, a mere spectator to the vastness of creation, unable to do anything but witness.

And then, as suddenly as it had begun, it stopped. Leonard’s power returned to the confines of his being, the room snapping back into focus as if reality had been reasserted by sheer force of will. The oppressive weight lifted, the shadows returned to their normal length, and the world seemed to breathe again.

Etinus slumped in his chair, gasping for air, his entire body trembling uncontrollably. His eyes were glazed, unfocused, as if he had been pulled back from the edge of some great abyss. It took several moments before he could even attempt to speak, his mouth opening and closing as if struggling to remember how to form words. The remnants of drool clung to his chin.

Leonard watched him with calm, impassive eyes, the impossible power concealed once more beneath his skin. He waited patiently, allowing the old mage the time he needed to regain some semblance of composure.

Eventually, Etinus managed to pull himself together, though his face was still ashen, his hands trembling as they gripped the arms of the chair. He looked at Leonard with fear and awe, as if seeing him for the first time. “What... what are you?” he finally croaked, his voice raw and unsteady.

Leonard leaned forward slightly, his gaze unwavering. “Now that we’ve established the terms of our discussion,” he said, smooth and measured, “we can begin the actual negotiations.”

Chapter 94 - Teenage Spirits - Margaret 1

"I don't think we'll be leaving anytime soon," Lamberta replied to her muttered question with a confused look, slumping on the communal lunchroom's bench.

Margaret was the first to say she wasn't exactly a fan of the prideful, green-haired, arrogant girl, but she could emphasize somewhat with her predicament.

While initially slated to remain only long enough to learn the basics of Pure Casting from Lady Jean—which was an entire can of worms she wasn't ready to open yet, no matter what Lia said about not leaving boiling pots on the fire—Archmage Etinus had decreed they'd stay behind for an indefinite amount of time, apparently deep in discussion with Sir Leonard about something important.

Having been at her teacher's whims for longer than she could remember, Margaret was used to following an elder's mysterious decisions without receiving a shred of an explanation. Indeed, leaving Lamprey Port and coming to Treon had been sprung on her the evening before the move, and she had to spend a sleepless night carefully packing every reagent lest they have an alchemical explosion on the road.

"Do you think it has to do with the treaty? I heard it was going well. All surface-level stuff, mostly about trade, but Sir Leonard seemed pretty satisfied with it the last time I asked." Oliver added from the opposite side of the bench.

Sometimes the boy could be thick. No matter how the light caught his fiery curls and framed his face like a descending angel, his brain only held enough space for swords and his family.

Lamberta and Margaret looked at each other in commiseration. They might not particularly like each other, but shared suffering made for strange bedfellows.

"I'm pretty sure it has to do with the meeting with the Grand Marshal he went to. He came back looking like he had drunk an entire barrel of grog." The Branderi girl replied drily.

Margaret hid a smirk behind her glass of water, lifting an eyebrow once Oliver dared look in her direction for support. At least he had the good sense not to ask for clarification.

"Ah, you guys are here! And lunch hasn't even been served yet! Oh, that's wonderful!"

And there she was. The bane of Margaret's days and the one thing that managed to get her over the instinctive dislike for Lamberta.

"Oh, Lady Jean! Yes, please join us! We were just waiting for the cooks to start serving lunch," Oliver's besotted tone made her guts twist, but she managed to keep it from appearing in her expression. This wasn't a fight she could win by engaging directly, even though she really wanted to sock the arrogant mage in the face.

"I wouldn't want to impose," Jean demurred, though she made no attempt to leave.

As always, the people in the lunchroom didn't seem to notice that the youngest Archmage in history and a weapon of mass destruction in human form was among them. Her casual use of mind magic did nothing to endear her to Margaret.

An empty ring of seats quickly formed around them as the people sitting there suddenly remembered something essential they needed to do. Margaret watched them go with the same hidden disgust she always felt. She could understand the need for privacy, as Lady Jean was a member of the War Council, but that same position afforded her a private dining room where she could take her meal without disrupting the rush hour!

No, calm down. She obviously has her reasons for doing this. For all that she appears as a vapid girl with only magic theory in her brain, she's hailed as one of Haylich's greatest geniuses for a reason. I doubt she'd waste this much time coming to have lunch with us every day if she just wanted to become friends. She has to know this is a shipwreck in motion. Oliver might be almost blind to social cues, but even he knows this is a bit much, though he wouldn't dare say it to her face.

"Please, join us." Margaret finally replied with great aplomb. She wasn't Old Lia's apprentice without a reason. She could put on a pleasant appearance if it were necessary while she studied her enemy. And her instincts were quite sure Lady Jean was her enemy.

Not as in she's a traitor. Even a goblin can see she worships the ground Sir Leonard walks on, but there's something funny about her. She's just too nice. No one is that nice. Not even the Hero, and he's the Hero!

She saved orphans, gave up her position in high society to help the Revolution, dedicated her time and resources to furthering the army's knowledge and material needs, opened a magic school, and took in people from every walk of life. She was the very picture of a Saint. And yet, the Light didn't bless her like it did the Hero. No, her power came directly from her brain. She manipulated the currents of the world's power like she was born for it.

Too much of a good thing, in Margaret's experience, was equally as dangerous as a bad thing. It might be that she was an Alchemist and thus used to weighing the worth of ingredients with a glance, but she had learned to trust her instincts.

Jean sat across from Margaret with a smile that was far too genuine for her liking, and lunch was served just as she settled into the seat. The table shimmered. A soft golden light sparkled in the air, and suddenly, a feast appeared before them. Platters of roasted meats, grilled river fish, fresh bread, steamed vegetables, and bowls of vibrant salads arranged themselves as if they had always been there.

"Isn't it neat?" Jean said, beaming. "It's just a simple switching spell I taught the cooks—a second-tier matrix that all Journeymen should be capable of casting. Makes getting lunch so much easier, don't you think? No need for the other workers to waste their time serving food this way!"

Lamberta, who had been poking at the food with mild curiosity, glanced up, carefully neutral. "Impressive. Is it based on Halley's space-time equation?"

"It is!" Jean enthusiastically replied, "I made it up years ago after learning how much time was used up organizing meals. It's a localized spellform, of course. Any open-ended attempt I made couldn't be lower than the fourth tier, but by picking an anchor—the tables, in this case—the matrix can be simplified enough that even a non-caster Blessing can learn it. It needs some memory work and practice to get the landing right, but once you do, it's like second nature."

"That's really cool," Oliver said with his mouth already full of roast duck, "Could it be reworked to call an item back to you? My sword has a return enchantment, but if we could make a spell easy enough that our Journeyman soldiers could learn it, they'd never lose their weapons."

And that was why Margaret still wasted her time behind Oliver, despite how frustrating their almost non-existent relationship was. He genuinely was quite clever, and his brain moved in ways most people couldn't understand, making logical leaps that would have taken long studies for anyone else.

As the young powerhouse started chattering with Oliver about the possible modifications such a spell would require and if adding it to the basic course was a good idea with how pressed for time they were, Margaret held her tongue, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. It wasn't that she didn't appreciate the convenience, but Jean's casual display of power was just another reminder of how far removed she was from the rest of them. Even something as mundane as lunch was a chance for her to show off.

With a basic matrix plotted out, Jean blinked in surprise, as if suddenly remembering she was supposed to eat, and put it away, "I'll finish this later and get it back to you, but I think I should be able to simplify it enough if we add an anchor rune to the hilts. It shouldn't be too problematic since it's only three straight lines. I'll send for a quote from the armories. My new office is close enough that I can swing by after lunch." Oliver thanked her and returned to his meal with vigor.

She then began chattering about the construction of the new magic school, animatedly describing the plans in detail. "The old Magic Tower is being repurposed as an administrative center. We're almost done pulling the nearby buildings down for materials, and the new school will have a design inspired by an elven castle I saw in a painting at the Royal Court when I was a child. It'll be beautiful, with towers, ivy spires, and plenty of space for students to practice their magic safely."

"I saw that. You are going much quicker than I expected." Oliver replied, grabbing another leg of duck without looking.

"I may have sped up the timeline a bit by doing most of the repurposing of materials myself." Jean laughed, and Margaret had to hold back from rolling her eyes. "The army's stone mages are quite good, but they are better used prepping for the campaign's next phase. This way, I'm not using even more valuable resources. And Sir Leonard's been incredibly supportive, of course. He understands the importance of investing in education to keep an edge as we expand."

As the meal ended, Margaret watched Jean closely, noting every gesture and flicker of expression. Her pale hair fluttered with every movement, and her long, white eyelashes gave her a doe-like look. The girl was too perfect, too composed. It was as if she had stepped out of a storybook—except this storybook character had the power to reshape the world around her as she saw fit.

Margaret's attention was drawn away by Lamberta, who caught her eye with a subtle tilt of her head. The silent exchange that followed was one they had practiced often in the last few days—a conversation held entirely through micro-expressions.

This is weird, Lamberta's raised brow and slight frown said.

Obviously, Margaret replied with a faint twitch of her lips.

She's redirecting too many resources to this school. It's wasteful when there are perfectly fine manses available.

Margaret gave a barely perceptible nod. I know, but we can't accuse her of anything. She's doing everything by the book.

Lamberta's eyes flicked toward Jean, then back to Margaret. Doesn't mean we have to like it.

Agreed.

Oblivious to the silent exchange, or perhaps simply pretending not to notice, Jean continued her conversation with Oliver. "And the new classrooms will have the latest enchantments for protection and comfort. The students will be able to study in the best possible environment, and we've even set up a new Research Division to explore advanced magics in the Tower."

At this, Lamberta finally spoke up. "How's it going with the old Tower Master? I heard he wasn't too thrilled about the changes at first."

Jean's smile didn't falter, but there was a flicker of something in her eyes—something that Margaret almost missed. "Oh, he's come around. He's become very involved in the Research Division, actually. It's taken up so much of his time that he's essentially given up his old position. He's far more valuable to us in research than administration."

Margaret couldn't help but notice how Jean said it—so casually and matter-of-factly. She had clearly orchestrated the Tower Master's new role with the same precision she applied to everything else. And while there was nothing outwardly wrong with what she had done—indeed, it could be considered a positive given that it removed power from a man whose loyalty wasn't assured— it only deepened her suspicions.

Oliver grinned obliviously. "That's great! Sounds like everything's working out perfectly."

"Indeed," Jean said, her smile never wavering. "Everything is progressing exactly as planned."

"Girl, I don't care to know what you are plotting, but make sure it doesn't affect your production rate. The next offensive is starting soon, and the army's a thirsty beast. We'll need a lot more potions to get through Pollus. That old bastard is more stubborn than an ox and will fight to the last man rather than give us an easy victory. And that’s only if we don’t get attacked with our pants down from somewhere else. We can’t afford to slow down now.”

Margaret nodded with the appropriate amount of deference, showing she understood her mentor's words. Yes, she'd fulfill her duties, but nothing said that was where she needed to stop her efforts.

Chapter 95 - Trekking and Its Consequences - Oliver 9

Being back on the march felt good. Oliver would have liked to have reached the Third Blessing by now, but he could feel it was close. If the siege of Treon had devolved into a bloody battle, he would have almost certainly achieved it. But since that would have meant a massacre of civilian lives, he was okay with waiting.

A quick look at the sky showed his acceptance wasn't enough to trigger the Blessing. Sometimes, that happened in stories.

"It will come when it's time."

Turning around in surprise, Oliver hastily avoided the hand aimed to muss up his hair with a half-step and a duck. Unfortunately, it wasn't enough, and Gareth's heavy hand managed to complete its task.

"Gah! Why do you always have to do that?! Do you know how long I have to spend getting it just right?" He complained, deflecting any further grab and jumping back two paces.

"If you stop giving me that reaction, I'll stop enjoying it so much." The older man replied with a devious grin.

Hector's heckling and name-calling had been a good training aid, but Oliver still had a bit of a temper and struggled to keep his emotions down when he felt he was being made fun of. With Gareth, he was more free with his reactions, simply because it felt good to see the previously depressed man so active.

He wouldn't say that was the reason out loud, of course. A man had his pride.

"Just you wait. I'll get to Expert soon enough, and then it's only a matter of time before I become a Master and kick your ass." Oliver grumbled, patting down his unruly curls with a hand.

Gareth laughed loudly, startling a few nearby soldiers who hadn't noticed him arrive. He could be a stealthy bastard when he wanted to, especially since his rank-up.

"The Grand Marshal sends for you, kiddo. It's time."

"I'll be there soon," Oliver replied, digesting the information. He knew things would start moving once again after they left Treon, but the tasks ahead still felt like they'd require every ounce of his strength.

At least, I feel like I can do it. When we first started, even talking about taking Thelma seemed crazy…

"Alright. Be sure not to make him wait too long. This is a good moment to bypass the scouts that no doubt monitor the Darkwood." With the sun going down and the marching soldiers halting for the night, most people would expect a general to hold meetings and strategize. Certainly not to leave their post.

Gareth gave him a reassuring pat on the back before striding off to join Amelia at the command tent, leaving Oliver standing alone for a moment. The air was hazy with the smoke of campfires and the murmur of soldiers preparing for the night. After so long in the barracks, being back on the road required some adjustment.

He shook off the nerves and set off toward the pavilion-like tent set up for administrative matters. Around him, the camp was a hive of activity, with soldiers bustling about, erecting tents, and cleaning artillery equipment, which they then stowed away for the night. Oliver had grown accustomed to the orderly chaos, but how quickly they could establish a functioning camp with fifteen thousand soldiers still amazed him.

As he approached the tent, he could already see Neer inside through the open flaps, towering over a group of clerks. The half-orc was hunched over a table cluttered with paperwork, her large hands surprisingly deft as she handled the delicate parchment. Her massive cleaver-like sword was propped against the table, close at hand despite the relative calm. Its sheer presence alone was enough to deter most foolishness.

Oliver entered the tent quietly, not wanting to disrupt the workflow, but Neer's sharp senses caught his presence immediately. She looked up, dark eyes locking onto him, and without a moment's hesitation, she sprang to her feet, careful not to knock over the stacks of paper that surrounded her. The clerks patiently waiting for her attention groaned in unison as they realized their boss would be leaving.

"Wait! We need you to sign off on these requisitions!" A young man yelled with desperation.

Neer waved a dismissive hand at them, already reaching for her sword. "More important things are happening," she said in a tone that brooked no argument. "If your matter is important enough, take it to Lady Amelia. She'll deal with it."

The clerks exchanged wary glances, some clearly displeased but none daring to argue further. They scurried away, papers in hand, leaving Oliver and Neer alone in the tent.

Neer strapped her sword to her back with practiced ease, the massive blade settling into place as if it were an extension of her body. "Ready?" she asked gruffly but not unkindly. Oliver nodded, and they stepped out into the cool evening air together.

The main camp was a sprawling, temporary city of tents and settled buildings that had taken over one of the abandoned towns they had taken north of Treon. The original inhabitants had long since fled, probably as soon as news of Treon's fall arrived. Their homes now served as the revolutionaries' barracks, storage, and command centers. A more worthy use than any the local noble could have made of them, especially since he was cowardly enough to run with all he had.

We'll catch up to him. If he's smart enough to realize he couldn't win, he will stay in Hetnia. Likely headed to Hassel. Leaving the Duchy is tantamount to renouncing all his people to the first noble with a decent knight corp he comes across.

As they walked through the camp, the soldiers parted for them, some offering salutes while others simply nodded in acknowledgment. Oliver noticed the relaxed and determined expressions on the faces around him—these men and women had seen battle, and they knew more was coming, but the string of victories they achieved made them trust in their commanders to lead them.

I doubt there's anyone here at this point who doesn't think we're going to make it. The details might be hazy, and most people know enough about Pollus' reputation to realize it won't be an easy fight, but they all have seen enough to know what we are doing is beyond anyone to stop.

"We'll have to fight again soon," Neer said, scanning the horizon where the sun was dipping below the treeline, casting long shadows over the camp.

"Yeah," Oliver agreed, his hand unconsciously brushing against the hilt of his sword. "But we've gained a lot of ground in a short time. The evacuation of the nearby towns actually sped things up for us. I was worried we'd face Pollus before getting beyond the Stepchild."

The Stepchild was the smallest and most violent of the Great Slitherer's children. It cut through Hetnia's western lands, ending up in the Darkwood and splitting into innumerable streams somewhere inside the magical forest. Crossing it before Pollus could finish his march through the woods meant forcing the old man to meet them in open battle lest he leave the way to Hassel open.

Neer grunted in agreement. "We grabbed as much territory in the last few days as we did two weeks before Treon. But it's not just that. The time we recouped was crucial. The enemy expected us to be bogged down in Treon, but with the city back in shape and the new institutions up and running, we're moving faster than they anticipated."

That brought a fleeting smile to Oliver's face. "Sir Leonard and Lady Jean really pulled off something incredible there. We'll have a fresh batch of mages and officers ready to join the fight in just a few months. They won't be ready for Hassel, but they'll be invaluable in consolidating our hold on Hetnia and reaching beyond its borders."

Neer glanced at him sideways, her tusks glinting in the fading light. "Don't get too comfortable. The enemy won't sit idly by while we build up our forces. They'll strike as soon as they see an opportunity."

"I know," Oliver replied, his voice resolute. "But we'll be ready."

It wasn't long before they reached the Grand Marshal's tent. Unlike the other major structures in the camp, this one was simple and unadorned, reflecting its occupant's practicality—at least this far from the frontlines, Sir Leonard had insisted there was no need to break out the upholstery and fine china. The tent's flaps were closed, and the faint glow of a light spell could be seen from within.

Inside, Sir Leonard was waiting for them. He stood by a table, dressed in a simple leather tunic with only his sword strapped to his side. Despite his plain attire, the man cut an imposing figure, his sharp eyes studying a map he had received as a gift from a clan of hobgoblins that had joined them the previous day.

Oliver glanced around the tent, expecting to see a pack of supplies, maps, or any of the usual tools of command, but there was nothing. The tent was almost bare.

"Where's all your gear?" Oliver asked, unable to hide his surprise. The mission would be quite dangerous, after all.

Sir Leonard looked at him with a calm, almost amused expression. "We won't be sleeping in inns or castles, Oliver. What we need is speed and stealth. Carrying extra gear would only slow us down." He paused, letting the words sink in before continuing. "This mission requires us to move quickly and quietly. We'll cover much ground tonight, and there's no time to set up camp or carry unnecessary supplies."

Neer grunted in agreement. "Less to carry, less to worry about being stolen. The Darkwood's nastier residents have a habit of picking on travelers."

Yeah, that's not ominous at all. I only ever explored the outer edges of the forest, and I almost died every time. Sir Leonard forbade me from going further by myself, and while I can admit to being more curious than it's safe, I stuck to his orders. There is something unsettling about the deeper forest.

Leonard didn't wait for more questions. He stepped out of the tent, and Oliver and Neer hurried after him. The night had deepened, and the sun's last light faded as the stars began to emerge. The camp was quiet now, with only the occasional murmur of conversation or the distant clatter of equipment breaking the silence.

A shadow waved at them as they left.

They left the town quickly, moving with purpose. The fields outside the town were empty, the crops had been long since been harvested, and the earth lay fallow.

Oliver focused on matching his mentor's pace, scanning the horizon for possible scouts as they crossed the open fields—not that he expected to find any, with how meticulous the search parties and the diviners were, but you never knew.

The Darkwood loomed ahead, an ominous mass on the edge of their vision. The southern part of the forest he knew had dense, almost impenetrable vegetation, but here on the western edge, the trees were more sparse, their trunks spaced apart by centuries of careful management by nearby settlements.

The closer they got to the forest, the more Oliver's senses sharpened. His little mistake with the eyesight enhancement spell had cost him several days of forced rest, but it had also given him a new understanding of such magics. Few in the army could match his visual sensory enhancement these days.

Soon after they walked beyond the tree line, faster than Oliver thought possible with how sparse the trees had seemed, the forest swallowed them whole. The canopy overhead became thick, blocking even the moonlight. The underbrush was less tangled than the southern edges, allowing them to move quickly even as the sounds of the night forest—rustling leaves, the distant hoot of an owl—faded into silence.

Only after a good hour of walking, when Leonard slowed and lifted a hand to halt them, did Oliver realize how quiet it had become. Anything that could indicate animal life or even the rustling of leaves was gone, replaced by an eerie stillness that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

Chapter 96 - Fae Deals - Oliver 10

“Must you always?” Sir Leonard asked in a long-suffering tone, significantly lowering the tension.

Oliver looked around, confused. He thought they were making good time when suddenly, the forest went eerily quiet, and he could no longer recognize the path.

“Don’t ruin my fun.” A light, sensual voice echoed around them. At his side, Neer slightly lowered her cleaver.

“You know I have something to do. I can’t spend as much time on niceties as usual.” Leonard replied, still seeming unconcerned.

Ah. I think I might get it. Is it her?

Two nearby trees groaned, branches twisting downward until they created an arch. Through it walked the most beautiful creature Oliver had ever seen.

Luminous, cat-like green eyes pinned him down like a butterfly in a spider’s net. Her dark skin seemed to swallow the light, only to reflect it and show hints of dark brown and deep emerald. A cascade of leaves framed the unnaturally perfect face in such a way that Oliver was forced to reconsider all he had known about his preferences.

Lady Amelia was the kind of beauty that felt impossible to compare to anything else. Too unique. Too dangerous. But any other person Oliver had met—even the rare elven trader or ranger that enjoyed spending a few years of their long lives in faraway places—was like a bad copy.

His mentor had warned him of the Darkwood’s guardian’s charm and beauty. He had also spoken of her many attempts to trick travelers and steal their names.

Oliver had made the mistake of thinking himself immune to such a weakness. Why would anyone give up their name to a creature so obviously inhuman? Everyone, from the most innocent child to the oldest crone, knew that fae toyed with mortals and were not to be trusted.

And yet, here he was, on the verge of introducing himself to hear her reply.

The dryad’s smile widened as she noticed the dazed look on Oliver’s face, eyes twinkling with mischievous delight. She took a graceful step closer, sounding like the rustling of leaves in a gentle breeze.

“Such an amusing look,” she teased, her voice like honey. “Has my beauty stolen your voice, young one? You could be quite amusing to keep around.”

Oliver’s mouth opened, the words forming in his throat before his mind could catch up. He was entranced, caught in the dryad’s spell. Just as he was about to speak, a heavy hand came down on the back of his head, jolting him back to reality.

“Snap out of it,” Neer growled, cutting through the haze in Oliver’s mind. The half-orc’s slap wasn’t particularly gentle, and Oliver winced as the dull thud echoed in his skull.

“Ow!” he exclaimed, rubbing the back of his head. He glanced at Neer, who shot him a look that clearly said don’t be an idiot.

“Thank you, Neer,” Sir Leonard said dryly, his gaze still on the dryad. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t charm my squire, Nemas. I still need him.”

The dryad—Nemas, as Leonard had called her—pouted in mock disappointment. “You’re no fun, dear. I was merely testing his resolve. It’s been a while since I’ve had visitors who aren’t running through my forest in a panic.”

Oliver blinked, trying to shake off the lingering fog in his mind. He knew better than to be caught off guard like that, yet he had fallen for the dryad’s charm so easily. He could feel his cheeks burning with embarrassment as he glanced back at her, and she winked at him playfully, clearly enjoying his discomfort.

“What brings you to my domain?” Nemas asked, now more serious but still carrying an undertone of amusement. She crossed her arms, pushing up her bust, her leaves rustling slightly as she tilted her head, studying the group with interest. “I don’t recall inviting another army to march through my forest.”

Leonard calmly stepped forward, coming to a stop before Oliver to prevent any other blunder. “We’re here to negotiate with the orcs. After taking Treon, we’ve proven our strength and hope to gain their support in the coming campaign.”

Nemas raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “So you’ve taken an actual city. Congratulations.” Her tone was laced with sarcasm as she eyed Leonard with an amused smirk. “And why should that feat make me allow you to march your forces through my forest? I’ve seen empires come and go, Leonard. You know how little their fate matters to me.”

Oliver noticed Leonard’s eyes narrowed slightly, though his voice remained steady. “I’m not asking permission to march an army through the Darkwood. Not yet, at least. We need the orcs’ support to stand a chance against Pollus and all that will come after him. They’ll only listen to us if we show them we’re capable of more than just words. Taking Treon was the first step.”

Nemas looked unimpressed, tapping her chin thoughtfully as she considered his words. “The orcs are not easily swayed by outsiders. Even if they know of your might, that doesn’t mean they’ll follow you in a new war. They like fighting, but they are surprisingly hard to rouse.”

Before Leonard could reply, Neer stepped forward, eyes narrowing as she addressed the dryad directly. “Does that mean Pollus has already got through the forest?”

Nemas scoffed in annoyance. “The Count and his forces learned their lesson quickly. After losing the first hundred men who tried to cut through my trees, they decided to circumnavigate the Darkwood. Cowards.”

Oliver’s gaze flicked between the three adults. The tension in the air was palpable, though the dryad seemed more amused than genuinely angry. Still, there was an edge to her words that made Oliver wary.

“We aren’t the nobles,” Leonard said calmly. “We respect the forest and those who protect it. Our goal is to ensure that the people living on its borders remain safe from those who would harm them. If we can gain the orcs’ support, we stand a better chance of stopping the Royal Army before he does any more damage to your domain.”

Nemas studied him with great focus. It was so intense that Oliver almost had to look away, but his mentor didn’t seem to care. “You know I like you, dear. I’m also aware I cannot stand in your way directly, but that doesn’t mean I cannot make your life difficult. Whatever deal you have worked out with the orcs, you still have to convince me to let you through.”

It was a pretty intimidating sight, but Oliver was more struck by the fact that this otherworldly beauty was basically asking for a bribe. The realization was so jarring that it shook him out of the daze he had fallen into. Nemas gave him a slightly surprised look but soon returned to staring down Leonard, who stood his ground, silently engaging in a battle of wills.

The air hummed with tension, and Oliver could feel his pulse quickening, though he wasn’t entirely sure why. The way Nemas’s gaze bore into Leonard and the way his mentor held it unflinchingly made it clear that something crucial was happening—something beyond the words being exchanged. This was a make-it-or-break-it moment.

“I’m not here to make your life difficult, Nemas,” Leonard said, his tone measured but resolute. “I’m here to propose an agreement that benefits us both.”

The dryad raised a leafy eyebrow. “And what, pray tell, would that be?”

“I offer you something no mortal ruler has ever offered you before. In exchange for allowing the Revolution safe passage and acknowledgment of our claim through the Darkwood, I will recognize you as the lawful governor of this land.”

The silence that followed his words was deafening. Both Neer and Nemas gasped, and even Oliver, who didn’t fully understand the gravity of the offer, could feel that it was something big. Neer’s hand instinctively tightened around her cleaver while Nemas’s expression shifted from amusement to shock.

“You would... recognize me as the governor?” Nemas echoed, her voice softer now, almost incredulous. “Do you realize what you’re offering, Leonard? No king in the centuries I’ve protected the forest has ever dared to do such a thing, even though they never controlled this land.”

Oliver blinked in confusion. Why was this such a big deal? He had seen plenty of nobles and knights recognize local leaders or officials to get their loyalty. What was so shocking about this? He glanced at Neer, hoping for some kind of explanation, but the half-orc’s eyes were locked on Leonard with unease.

The Hero, however, remained calm. “I’m fully aware of what I’m offering. Recognizing your authority over the Darkwood means acknowledging that this land belongs to you and that it will always belong to you. No mortal can claim it after that.”

Oliver’s breath caught in his throat as the realization hit him. Always. If Leonard recognized Nemas as the lawful governor, it meant that the land would never change hands again—not in a lifetime, not in a thousand years. The Darkwood would belong to her forever.

“That’s why no one’s ever done it,” Leonard explained, as if sensing Oliver’s confusion. “Mortals are always thinking about the future. They want to pass their lands down to their children, their children’s children. They know that as long they prosper, they will need to expand. And Haylich doesn’t have many other options left beyond what’s already technically within our borders. Giving Nemas official rulership of the Darkwood means locking up a good third of Hetnia’s land. Even if our agreement allows for the exploitation of resources, we’ll never be able to cut it down and build new cities. Nemas is not mortal. She won’t grow old and die.”

The dryad’s emerald lips curled into a slow, dangerous smile. “No, I won’t. But Leonard… you’re no longer mortal either, are you?”

Oliver’s heart skipped a beat. He glanced at Leonard in alarm, but his mentor’s expression didn’t change. The words hung in the air, heavy with implication, and suddenly, Oliver felt as if the ground beneath him had shifted.

Leonard didn’t deny it. “The same concerns as other men do not bind me. A deal with me cannot be twisted, nor can it be broken.” It was a non-answer, but also all they were going to get.

The dryad studied him for a long moment as she weighed his words. Then, slowly, she nodded. “Very well, Leonard. I accept your offer. I will allow your forces to pass through my domain unhindered for the moment, and we’ll work out a proper deal later.”

Fae do not care about anything but what they’ve agreed upon. The words of his village’s elder echoed in Oliver’s ears, and he could only hope they weren’t making a big mistake.

After resuming their march, Oliver could feel the difference immediately. The forest, which had felt oppressive and labyrinthine, now seemed to part before them, revealing hidden paths and guiding their way forward. The trees shifted subtly as they walked, opening clearings and moving aside thorny undergrowth that would have slowed their progress. Even the sounds of the forest had changed; where before there had been eerie silence, now there was a sense of companionship and calm as songbirds accompanied them.

Oliver glanced around in awe, his earlier fears fading into wonder. “The forest is helping us,” he murmured.

Neer grunted in agreement, her eyes scanning the surroundings with caution and respect. “The dryad keeps her word. For now.”

Leonard remained silent, staring ahead. Oliver couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted between his mentor and the dryad during their negotiation, something beyond the simple exchange of words. He wanted to ask, to understand what Nemas had meant when she said that Leonard was no longer mortal, but the words stuck in his throat. Now didn’t feel like the right time.

They traveled for hours, though crossing the distance should have taken them days. Finally, they reached a violent stream, whose waters crashed against sharp rocks with deafening force. Standing on the opposite bank was a figure that made a shiver run down Oliver’s spine despite having expected it.

The orc warchief was massive, towering over even the shorter trees nearby. He was clad in bone armor, each piece intricately carved and stained with age. His skin was a deep, earthy green, and his eyes burned fiercely. A gigantic cleaver rested on his shoulder, its blade as wide as Oliver’s torso. The sheer presence of the orc was overwhelming, and Oliver instinctively stepped back.

The warchief’s voice boomed across the stream, demanding their attention. “State your business, trespassers! You stand before Grakkor, chief of the Darkwood’s tribes. Speak, or be cut down where you stand!”

Chapter 97 - Orc Roots - Neer 5

Neer had known she would eventually meet an orc tribe. She had prayed for them to come tearing down Thelma’s walls for years before she understood that wasn’t possible. Considering how much she took after him, she had desperately hoped her father’s side would be more welcoming.

Age and experience tempered her expectations. Then, the Incursion came, and news of the voidlings tearing down the Darkwood and exterminating all settlements within shattered her last hopes. Of the dozen orc tribes that had once thrived within, only a handful were left, and it was unlikely she’d ever meet anyone related to her, given the little care orcs had for familial relationships. Brotherhood forged in the fire of battle was worth a hundred times a blood bond to them.

She also understood something of that. Leonard might not be her sworn brother—he was far too great to lower himself to that, and she’d never dare ask—but they shared an understanding, a trust that couldn’t be inherited. It had to be built through adversity. Gareth was probably the closest thing she had to a sworn brother, for all that the man was too afraid of commitment to bind himself to her in ceremony.

Still, a small part of her, which she believed she had finally buried after earning a name for herself as the General in charge of the Security Forces, had urged her to participate in this mission. She couldn’t deny some longing for her father’s people, if only to finally put those last embers of hope to rest.

Seeing the massive warchief standing in their way stirred something more primal in her. A low growl built up in her throat, and before Neer realized it, she held her weapon at the ready, muscles taut and primed to launch at the first hint of danger. She would not allow her lord and little Oliver to come to harm.

“We are here to participate in the leadership contest, Chief Grakkor.” Leonard’s voice cut through the haze her thoughts had fallen into, bringing her back to reality.

Yes, of course. They know each other. This has already been arranged. Leonard talked to them months ago. Stupid, control yourself.

The mountain of muscle shifted in a less threatening display, appearing pensive. “No human has ever dared ask to lead us. No human would survive the trials.”

“No human before me has received the acknowledgment of the Darkwood’s guardian,” Leonard replied, and Neer could see that the warchief was surprised. Apparently, that hadn’t been discussed before.

Well, fae are notoriously hard to predict. An old one like the dryad even more so. I wouldn’t have been shocked had she decided she wanted to taste us and attacked us mid-conversation, or even if she tried to marry the kid. Even elves—who are barely worth calling fae with how diluted their blood has become—are flighty and impossible to pin down. A true fae like that… It’s a wonder we made it out without wandering for eternity through the forest. I suppose that just shows how great the Grand Marshal is. Not mortal anymore, indeed.

“Very well then. As you have received the honor of being recognized by the one true authority of the forest and by a warrior of good standing as a man worth testing, you’ll be allowed to participate in the trials. Your death will be told at our campfire for years.”

That was weirdly comforting, and Neer now knew enough to realize it was meant as such. Being a war-like people, the orcs probably preferred the guarantee that their name would live on rather than assurances about safety and other nonsense humans so enjoyed.

Grakkor stepped back from his position, his massive form moving through the rushing water without disturbing it. Once he got to shore, he gestured for them to follow. Neer caught his eyes briefly and saw no hostility, only curiosity, but no question about her origin came. The warchief had accepted them, for now.

Leonard began to wade through the river without a word. The current tried its best to pull him along, but his steps were inexorable. Neer followed, watching their surroundings in case of an ambush at their most vulnerable moment. Wide-eyed and cautious, Oliver struggled to keep his footing on the slippery rocks beneath the rushing water. The young squire stumbled once, but Neer’s steady hand on his shoulder kept him upright.

Once they reached the other side, Grakkor turned and began leading them deeper into the forest, his massive cleaver resting casually on his shoulder as though it weighed nothing. Neer couldn’t help but admire the ease with which he moved—every step was smooth and controlled despite his hulking frame. There was a sense of power radiating from him, born of countless battles and the confidence of one who knew his land intimately.

As they ventured further into the Darkwood, Neer noticed several changes. While it was true that with Nemas’ blessing, they were able to move unnaturally fast through it, the forest had remained wild and untouched. Things were different now. Rough paths were cut through the undergrowth, and here and there, she spotted the remnants of recently felled trees, their stumps raw and bleeding amber sap. The smell of resin and churned earth tickled her nose, mingling with the scent of smoke that drifted from unseen fires.

Then they reached the village.

It was larger than Neer had expected, sprawling out in all directions with hasty construction evident everywhere. Tents of various sizes were erected in every available space. Animal hides stretched taut over wooden frames that still bore the rough marks of recent cutting—evidently not the work of Blessed craftsmen. Makeshift shelters and lean-tos were crammed between the larger structures, while the ground beneath their feet had been trampled into dark mud by countless orcish boots. Clearly, the village had expanded rapidly far beyond its original capacity. Neer’s eyes roamed over the scene, drinking in every detail as if starved.

This was not the ordinary orc village she had expected to find. It was a settlement that had been forced to grow to accommodate several times its population, likely in response to some looming threat. The orcs had prepared for something—whether it was Pollus’s army or the Incursion before that, she couldn’t be sure—but the signs of rushed expansion were unmistakable.

Confirming her theory, Shamans walked along the edges of the village, hunched beneath heavy robes adorned with bones, feathers, and trinkets of power. They chanted in low, guttural tones, voices blending together in a rhythmic hum reverberating through the air and into her bones. Neer recognized the language. Arcane Orcish, an older dialect she had only recently begun studying, having found transcripts in the Luster-Treon library. It was a language reserved for ceremonies, for communicating with the spirits, and without instances of being spoken in daily life for decades, if not centuries.

What little she understood told her that the shamans were trying to appease the forest’s spirits.

Neer’s gaze followed one of them as he moved toward the edge of the village, where the trees had been cut down to make room for the new tents. The air around him seemed heavy with unspent mana, and for a brief moment before the power disappeared as if sucked through a straw, she could feel the weight of the spirits’ anger in the very earth beneath her feet. Cutting down so many trees had disturbed the balance of the forest, and the shamans were working hard to soothe their patrons.

Neer frowned, trying to figure out what this meant for the orcs. The Security Forces had strict protocols when it came to handling land. They respected the boundaries of sacred places, made offerings to the spirits when necessary, and avoided unnecessary destruction. But here… the orcs had been forced to make a difficult choice, sacrificing part of their home to accommodate the growing number of their people. It was a decision born of necessity, not greed, making it all the more painful.

As they approached the heart of the village, a group of orc warriors stepped forward to greet them. They were clad in outwardly crude but effective armor, their bodies thick with muscle and scarred from battle. At their head was a massive female orc, nearly as tall as Grakkor and just as imposing. Her eyes gleamed with intelligence as she looked over the newcomers, sizing them up with a glance.

Grakkor raised a hand, his voice booming. “These are the ones who have been accepted by the Guardian. Sir Leonard Weiss has earned the right to participate in the Trials. I personally vouch for him as a warrior worth testing.”

The female orc nodded in acknowledgment, her gaze lingering on Leonard for a moment longer before shifting to Neer and Oliver. “So, this is the human who thinks he can survive our Trials.” Her voice was deep and rough, yet her tone showed a hint of respect. Good, Neer wouldn’t allow any insult, “And his companions… warriors in their own right, no doubt. Grakkor is generous with his larder, but everyone pulls their weight here. You’ll have to work to partake in our food.”

Neer met the female orc’s gaze, eyes hard with resolve. “We have come prepared.” She knew she shouldn’t rise to such a blatant provocation, but this woman was evidently trying to test them. Leonard and the warchief had planned out the trials as a way to legitimately add the orc tribes to the Revolution in a way that all would accept. Given her antagonistic tone, Neer was almost sure this female would also participate in the trials. She had no doubt Leonard would handily win, but any obstacle was unacceptable, and she had just spent months eliminating even the barest hints of opposition. Restraining herself here was more of a chore than she would have expected.

The female orc’s lips curled into a faint smile. “Good. Then prepare yourselves. The opening ceremony will take place tonight, and the morning after that, the Trials will begin.” She gestured toward a large tent that had been set up slightly apart from the rest of the village. “You will rest in the camp until then.”

Grakkor’s scarred lips twitched in amusement, but he began to lead them toward the tent without another word. As they walked, Neer couldn’t help but feel the weight of the orc warriors’ eyes on her. They were evaluating her, judging whether she was worthy of standing among them. It was a familiar feeling, one she had faced many times before. She knew what they were thinking—that she was half-human, an outsider. But she would prove herself, just as she always had.

“Don’t mind Hussa too much. She lost many of her people to the voidlings and doesn’t have a good impression of humans. Too afraid to die, she believes.” Grakkor finally explained, “Many among the new orcs think she’d make a fine chief. She’d allow them to keep living as they always have, without worries for the changes happening outside the forest.”

He stopped there, but Neer could read between the lines. They were seen as outsiders coming to upend life as everyone knew it. It likely meant they had few supporters inside, as from what she had seen, the tribes were already beyond their saturation limit. They wouldn’t want someone who’d take them away from their ancestral lands.

“They’ll follow anyone who wins anyway, right?” Oliver’s voice cracked midway, making the old warchief snort. Still, he nodded, “Yes, orcs respect strength. If someone is recognized by a warrior of high standing—me in this case— they can take part in the trials, no matter their origin. And if they win, it means they have the strength and wisdom to lead the tribe through any adversity. They’ll follow you.”

And that’s the important thing. No matter what they think of us, orcs are fundamentally more honest about their wishes. They want someone powerful to lead them so they might win more and live in prosperity or survive in sufficient numbers to repopulate in bad times. Much better than humans.

Now, if only she could understand why Leonard was looking at her with such exasperation…

Chapter 98 - Feasts For Orcs - Neer 6

"Some of you have asked me why I would call for a leadership contest. I'm not infirm or sick. Mother Trez has even been heard saying it would require a full-grown Dragon to kill me and finally give her peace!" A rumble of laughter echoed through the camp. At least two thousand orcs were in attendance as Grakkor addressed the tribes, and they all gave the old warchief the appropriate attention.

"While I could continue leading the Darkwood's orcs, as I have for my tribe for decades on strength alone, it should be obvious to all that things cannot stay as they are." Low murmurs started at that, but a single glance at the offenders was enough to restore the quiet.

"Our tribe has swelled up sevenfold in the past few years! Many good warriors gave their lives to push back the abominations, and it is through their efforts that we can speak today next to a warm fire!" A roar of approval followed. It seemed that the good old talking points about the military and sacrifice worked just as well here as they did with humans.

Grakkor stood tall, his massive frame illuminated by the flickering light of the central fire. His voice, rough like the bark of ancient trees, boomed across the clearing, commanding the attention of every orc present. His eyes held an intensity that made Neer subconsciously stand up straight.

"But life outside the Darkwood is changing," he continued, tone growing somber. "The Void was only the first challenge. Armies march all around us. Kingdoms rise and fall, and even the strongest lose their place." He paused, letting his words sink in. "But the world outside is shifting faster than we've ever seen. However much I might wish to fight these battles alone, it's not something any single orc can face. If we are unprepared, we'll be swept aside. We have to remind them and ourselves of who we are!”

Orcs were often portrayed as little more than goblins with bigger bodies—unthinking, feral, and dangerous. Neer didn't doubt Grakkor was more than capable of laying waste to any human village by himself and that he likely had done so several times, but no one listening to him speak could make the mistake of thinking him dumb.

Behind the mass of muscles and intimidating gaze laid a keen intellect. She hadn't expected it, but he showed a more modern understanding of Haylich's trends than many nobles ostensibly trained in the finest academies.

Grakkor's gaze softened, a hint of pride showing through his gruff exterior. "I have fought for my tribe, for this forest, for as long as I've been able to hold a blade. I've taken down beasts, traitors, men, and creatures from beyond our world. But there are new threats, new ways of war that I cannot rightly face by myself. I am too old. Set in my ways." He looked out at the sea of faces before him, some young and eager, others older and more weathered like his own. "And so, it is time for new leadership. Leadership that can guide us through the challenges to come. That can unify the tribes into a whole."

The murmurs returned, but this time, they were thoughtful and considering. Neer could feel the shift in the crowd, the understanding that Grakkor's decision wasn't out of weakness but wisdom.

Had anyone else tried this same speech, it wouldn't have gone as well—only someone as respected and storied as him can say something this revolutionary and face only mild skepticism.

"The Trials of Leadership will begin tomorrow," he finally announced. "The strongest, the cleverest, the most determined will earn the right to lead our tribe through these changing times. And tonight…" He spread his arms wide, a grin breaking across his scarred face. "Tonight, we feast!"

A deafening roar of approval erupted from the gathered orcs, and the atmosphere shifted from solemn contemplation to wild celebration. Several older females brought out whole boars on cue, and the smell of roasting meat soon filled the air. Barrels of dark ale were rolled out, their contents sloshing eagerly into waiting tankards. The orcs moved with an almost manic energy, spirits lifted by the promise of a glorious feast. For tonight, they could leave the problems aside.

A matronly cook handed Neer a tankard of dark ale. Its rich, earthy scent filled her nostrils, and despite her usual preference for sour wines, she took a long drink, the bitter taste of wild oats and roasted grains hitting her tongue. It was strong, much stronger than the human drinks she was used to, but it warmed her insides in a way that no wine ever had. She found herself smiling, a deep satisfaction settling in her chest as she took another swig. The ale was bracing, and she felt a certain kinship with it—raw, unrefined, but full of life.

The feast was loud and wild, the sounds of laughter, song, and conversation mingling with the crackling of the fire. Neer watched as younger orcs approached Oliver, pulling him into their games with an enthusiasm that was impossible to resist. At first, the boy looked overwhelmed and nervous, but after a quick reassuring glance from his mentor, he allowed himself to be pulled away. Soon enough, he was laughing alongside them, his earlier nervousness melting away.

She glanced around the clearing, her eyes landing on Grakkor, who stood a little apart from the main gathering. Leonard was with him, the two of them deep in conversation. Neer's brow furrowed in curiosity as she watched them.

She had seen Leonard negotiate with nobles and generals, but the stakes felt different here in this wild place. The orcs weren't bound by the same rules as humans, and the trials Leonard would face were likely unlike anything they had encountered before. She wondered if the few diaries from orcish adventurers she had been able to read were truthful.

Before she could dwell on it further, Neer felt a presence beside her. She turned to see Hussa, the massive female orc who had led the warriors to greet them earlier. Hussa's size still impressed her; she was nearly as tall as Grakkor and just as powerfully built, by far the largest female around, but Neer recognized a keen intelligence in her eyes.

"You're the half-blood warrior," Hussa rumbled so low it was almost lost in the noise of the feast. It wasn't a question.

Neer met her gaze evenly, refusing to be intimidated. "I am." Disgust was an old companion to her. She had hoped to avoid it here but wouldn't buckle under it.

Hussa nodded, her eyes narrowing as she studied Neer more closely. "You move like an orc but carry yourself like a human. It's strange."

Neer raised an eyebrow, taking another drink of her ale. "I am both. I've learned to fight with both human discipline and orc ferocity. It has allowed me to kill many."

Hussa grunted in approval, crossing her arms over her broad chest. "Good. You'll need both if you want to survive here. The Darkwood isn't for soft city girls." Neer almost snorted her drink from her nose. She had been insulted many times in her life, but never had anyone called her a soft city girl. Monster, freak, savage, brute, and many others, yes. But that? It was a first.

She glanced over at Grakkor and Leonard. "The Trials won't be easy. Strength alone won't win them, no matter what your pretty boy can do. If that were all the chief wanted, he'd have kept his position to himself."

It was fascinating to see how Hussa, who should, by all rights, be a strength-focused warrior, spoke of being a brute as if it was a great fault. Really, the more she delved into the orcish culture, the more she was charmed by it.

Neer tilted her head, letting Hussa's words sink in. She then leaned forward, narrowing her eyes just slightly. "No matter what the challenge, Leonard will win. He's more than prepared to face whatever comes his way. You'd best be ready to bend the knee when he does."

Hussa let out a harsh snort, her tusks gleaming in the firelight. "Bend the knee to a human? You're as delusional as you are strange, half-blood. I've faced beasts that make your human lord look like a child playing soldier. I won't lose to him, no matter what Grakkor thinks he's capable of."

Neer held her gaze, silent but unyielding. A sharp retort bubbled up inside her, but she swallowed it down. This wasn't the time for a fight, not at the feast. The trials would come soon enough, and there would be plenty of opportunity to prove their worth then.

Hussa wasn't done. She stepped closer, voice dropping to a low growl meant only for Neer. "You might feel comfortable under that human's command now, but deep down, you must know it's wrong. Orcs don't submit to humans. It's unnatural." With that final barb, she turned and strode away, her hulking figure soon lost in the sea of orcs celebrating around the fire.

Neer's jaw clenched, her fangs bared in a moment of frustration. But she didn't move or give in to the instinct to follow Hussa and prove her wrong with steel. She had grown too much for that. Besides, she knew better than to start a brawl during a semi-religious feast. Instead, she forced herself to take a deep breath, letting the tension in her muscles slowly unwind.

Fucking bitch. Does she think I can be provoked so easily? As if she were the first to taunt me.

Just like she was used to doing when under the jeers of Thelma's nobles, Neer worked through her anger by clinically observing her surroundings.

Thirty-seven warriors are standing on guard, and four shamans with active spells look out for enemy attacks. Twelve elders to handle the drinks and ensure no one goes overboard before the big day.

Her gaze soon settled on Oliver, who had been pulled into a series of rough games by a group of teenage orc girls and a single male. The boy, with his flaming red hair and shy demeanor, was clearly a novelty to them. They surrounded him, laughing and teasing, pulling him into playful headlocks. Oliver's face flushed bright red as he struggled to free himself from their grip without getting too close to their broad, muscular forms. The girls giggled at his discomfort, clearly enjoying his embarrassment as much as the game itself.

Neer couldn't help but smile. Oliver was trying his best to maintain his dignity, but his blush only deepened with every escape attempt. The orc girls, for all their roughness, weren't unkind—they were simply playing with him in a way that was normal for them, a way that highlighted their strength and his unfamiliarity with their customs. He was as interesting to them as an exotic animal, and his red hair only made him more fascinating.

Neer shook her head, taking another drink of her ale. The boy would survive. He always did. And in a strange way, this was probably good for him—a lesson in adapting to new situations, just as they all were learning here in the Darkwood. Watching him struggle and blush, she realized how different this world was from the human courts they had known. There were no pretenses here, no hidden agendas. Strength, wit, and endurance were what mattered. The orcs were blunt, but they were also refreshingly honest.

Even Hussa, with her provocations, was not as nasty as many human nobles she had met. She would still enjoy seeing the woman eating dirt after Leonard defeated her, but she could understand her words weren't malicious. In a convoluted way, she was looking out for her.

Chapter 99 - The Hunt - Leonard 36

The tang of fresh blood used to be off-putting. Even years after being summoned to a new world, having led the forces of humanity against the maw of the void, Leonard hadn't been able to avoid wrinkling his nose when the smell first hit.

And yet, as he tracked down his quarry and followed the crimson drops much like Hansel and Gretel would follow breadcrumbs, Leonard found that he didn't mind so much anymore.

He wasn't bloodthirsty, no. He didn't even particularly enjoy hunting as a sport, despite it being the preferred hobby of many rulers. He had just become numb to it.

One might ask themselves why that would happen now and not during the years-long campaign against the void. The simple answer was that it was a different type of war. The honest answer was that he had been too out of it back then to process everything that kept happening around him consciously. One of the few things he had retained was his disgust for the abysmal conditions the lower classes were forced into.

Even after years of the beginning, scouting burned-out villages, with the broken bodies of those few who had stayed behind to give their loved ones time to flee, had been enough to upset him.

These days, he could walk through a field of fresh corpses and not blink.

Sometimes, I wonder how much more I lost by ascending. The benefits were straightforward, but the System never mentions useless things. If it took the time to inform me that I would "see the world with the eyes of an immortal," it meant it was a relevant change.

Of course, he hadn't had a choice back then. The last battle was rapidly approaching, and while the new mages trained in Pure Casting could handle the fodder, the deeper they went into the corrupted lands, the more dangerous spawn of the void they met. Refusing the blessing would have led to innumerable deaths and would have also condemned hundreds of thousands to suffer under the yoke of slavery, as he wouldn't have had the power to lead the Revolution.

A loud growl distracted him from his spiraling thoughts. Yes, there would be time later for more contemplation. Now, he had a beast to put out of its suffering.

After that warning, the forest became unnervingly quiet. Even the birds that were usually bold in their song fell silent, and the air became heavy and oppressive. What little animal life was left in the middle of its territory knew better than to call its attention.

The snake-tailed green tiger, or the Southern Chimera for scholars, was a creature of legend, a monster that belonged more to children's nightmares than to the real world. But here it was, real and in the flesh.

This particular specimen had been a thorn in the side of the Darkwood's ecosystem for years, ever since it had escaped from a foreign merchant's stock—a foolish attempt at breeding and selling exotic creatures for their venom that had ended in the death of an entire village. The creature had vanished into the depths of the Darkwood and, until recently, had kept to itself, living in the shadows.

With the defeat of the Incursion, that had changed.

Leonard had known of its presence for a while. Nemas had informed him more than a year ago that the chimera could make enough of a mess to upset the forest's balance if left unchecked. She hadn't been that concerned at first—the beast had only been a juvenile then, content to hunt small game and live quietly. But now that it had matured, its appetite had grown, and it had systematically cleared out all animal life in its territory. It had become too dangerous to ignore, even for a being as old and powerful as Nemas. Not that she couldn't kill it by herself. In the forest, she was a force to be reckoned with. She would be on par with an Elemental King if she didn't care about the collateral damage.

But why would she waste time and energy on it when there was someone who'd do it for free?

Leonard saw this as an opportunity. The first of the Leadership Trials involved a hunt, and what better quarry than a monster like this? Taking down such a beast would prove beyond a doubt that he was worthy of advancing in the contest to lead the Darkwood orcs—indeed, it might even push several of the other contenders to withdraw, as only a handful of warriors could fight such a beast and live— but it would also rid the forest of a growing threat.

The chimera's lair was close now. He could feel a poisonous aura that seemed to radiate from the very earth, a chill that tried to settle deep in his bones but was burned out by the roiling power within him.

The snake-tailed green tiger was not a simple predator. It was a fourth-tier monster, a creature that had reached the pinnacle of its natural growth, and with that power came the ability that earned its place in so many folk stories: its very presence exuded a toxic miasma that could paralyze anything below the third tier with just one whiff. Even seasoned hunters and warriors would fall victim to it, their bodies locked in place, unable to flee as the creature's terrible maw descended upon them. Entire villages disappeared overnight when the southern chimeras went to hunt.

Leonard felt the edges of that aura now, prickling all over his skin, but his steps were undaunted. He had nothing to fear from it.

He pressed forward, right hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword as he scanned the area for any sign of movement. He could have located the beast via remote viewing, but that would have defeated the purpose of this challenge. He had to show himself as a good tracker, which was what had led him here.

And then he saw it.

The chimera lay half-hidden in the underbrush, its massive form blending almost seamlessly with the greenery around it. Its fur was a vibrant, poisonous green that should have looked ridiculous and yet only served to wake up the vestigial lizard brain at the back of his mind that screamed danger. It was a camouflage that allowed it to stalk through the forest undetected, and on the rare occasion it left its confines, it served to shout to the world what it was.

The chimera was as large as an owlbear but far more dangerous. Its body was densely muscled, every breath rippling with lethal power. Its head, broad and predatory, was adorned with rows of razor-sharp teeth that could tear through armor as easily as flesh. And then there was its tail—long, scaled, and sinuous, like a massive snake that ended in a deadly barbed stinger. It coiled and uncoiled with a life of its own, ready to strike at anything that came too close.

It was also injured. Not deeply enough to threaten its life, but certainly enough to hamper its movements.

He had fallen upon it just as it finished eating its latest prey, a small family of needle rabbits. Leonard hadn't allowed it to sense his presence and scored a deep cut on its flank.

Again, he could have killed it in one strike then, but that would have defeated the test's purpose.

As Leonard walked closer, his eyes locked on the creature's glowing yellow ones, he saw the aftermath of his earlier strike. The gash along its side oozed dark, venomous blood. The skin twitched, muscles rippling as if desperate to close over the wound, but it couldn't—Dyeus made sure of that. The sky blade was no ordinary weapon, after all. The poison in its blood couldn't overpower the divine energy; thus, the beast's regenerative powers were halted.

The grass whispered beneath Leonard’s boots as he closed the distance, from fifty feet to forty, then to thirty, until finally, he stood just twenty feet away. The creature's growl deepened, reverberating through the clearing like the low rumble of distant thunder. It rose from its crouch, revealing its full, terrifying size. The gash along its side stretched and bled more profusely as it moved, the chimera's frustration evident in every twitch of its body. It was cornered, and it knew it.

The noxious aura surrounding the beast thickened, the air around them clouding with poison. Leonard ignored it, the magic sliding off him like water over stone. He had fought far more dangerous creatures than this during the Incursion, and their auras had been deadlier still. The beast, though powerful, was just another obstacle.

Briefly, he allowed his gaze to flick to the side, where he could sense two pairs of eyes watching him. Darkwood orcs, hidden behind the dense foliage. He hadn't seen them approach—which went to show just how skilled they were at navigating the forest— but he'd felt their presence the moment they'd arrived. Two scouts, no doubt sent to observe his progress in the Leadership Trials. They were quiet, disciplined, and respectful of the hunt. Leonard gave no indication that he had noticed them, returning his focus to the beast before him. This was his trial, and their eyes were irrelevant.

He unsheathed Dyeus in one fluid motion, the sound of steel cutting through the tension in the air like a herald of death. The chimera reacted immediately, its muscles tensing, eyes narrowing. It knew what was coming.

With a snarl that shook the trees, it sprang at him, closing the twenty-foot gap in a heartbeat. Its claws, sharp as steel, arced toward Leonard, aiming to tear him apart. But he was faster. In one swift, practiced motion, Dyeus sliced through the air, meeting the beast's attack head-on. The blade easily cleaved through the hard nails, forcing the chimera to abort its charge. It landed heavily a few feet away, blood dripping from its now-ruined paw, a mixture of fury and pain glowing in its eyes.

Leonard pressed his advantage. A first swing forced the chimera back, and it became more desperate as it struggled to avoid a pitiful end. But Leonard was relentless, his focus razor-sharp, and he gave the creature no room to recover. He swung two more times, driving it back and scoring long gashes.

Desperation fueled its reserves. The chimera's eyes gleamed with malevolent light as it called upon its innate poison magic. Dark clouds of toxic energy shot toward Leonard. The ground beneath him blackened where the magic touched it, wilting the plants and turning the soil to ash. But Leonard remained unaffected. The poison's magic dissipated harmlessly against his aura, unable to penetrate the Light.

Snarling in frustration, the chimera changed the game and leaped once more with its jaws wide open, aiming to crush Leonard's head in its massive maw.

Though it all happened in a flash, Leonard had no trouble reacting. He raised Dyeus and interposed the blade between the chimera's teeth, timing his move perfectly. The creature's mouth snapped shut around the sword. Dyeus cleaved through flesh and bone as the chimera's momentum carried it forward. Blood sprayed in the air as he cut cleanly through the creature's skull, severing the upper part of its head.

The chimera's body crashed to the ground with a thunderous thud, its skull rolling to a stop a few feet away. The clearing fell silent once more, the oppressive aura of poison dissipating upon the utterance of a single word, “Purity.”

Already, life started returning to the forest. Nemas' presence extended over the clearing, taking over the purging of the rot that would fester in her domain and giving life back to the plants that had been lost.

Leonard exhaled slowly, sheathing Dyeus as he stepped away from the fallen beast. He glanced briefly toward the two orc scouts, who remained hidden but no doubt had witnessed the entire fight. They would return to their elders with the story of his victory, ensuring that his prowess would be known throughout the Darkwood.

This trial wasn't decisive, but it was enough to put him ahead of all other pretenders.

Chapter 100 - The Second Trial - Leonard 37

Leonard didn't even attempt to complain about the rough handling. Elder Wei was not the kind of woman to care, and they both knew he could have gotten out of the restraints anyway. She would have probably replied that he should do something about it if he was that uncomfortable being lugged around like a sack of potatoes.

Of course, that would mean failing the second test, and he couldn't accept that. While he didn't see the necessity of all this mummery—fake kidnappings, whispers in the shadows, and even a moonless night— he knew well enough to leave it alone. Orcs were very strict about keeping to tradition, and since he was about to be grilled by the elders, starting with a protest about the things they cared the most about wasn't likely to win any of them over.

Luckily, Elder Wei was fast enough that the discomfort lasted only half an hour.

Soon, Leonard sensed the mana tightening as a net around him in what felt remarkably like an oath. It wasn't exactly that, but the similarities were sufficient that he quickly realized the reason behind all the theatre. Anyone who willingly allowed themselves to be kidnapped in the middle of the night—minor poisoning notwithstanding, but those who couldn't resist that had been removed during the previous trial—was more than agreeable to respecting the terms of the trial.

A sufficiently powerful shaman, a Champion, or a cabal of Masters—the more likely option—would be able to take that acceptance and twist it into a fully-fledged "oath."

From now on, he wouldn't be able to lie, on pain of his magic turning against him. It was a clever bit of spellwork, and it showed that constraining the boundaries of knowledge to what was widely accepted in the human world would be a terrible mistake. Also, he was limited to body enhancement unless he wanted to break everything.

I'll have to remember to tell Jean. Better yet, I'll bring a shaman with me when I go back to the army and have them tell her. Yes, that's a better plan. This little detour is costing us a few days, but it's worth it since we're adding so much firepower. Any more delays are to be avoided if possible.

Finally, Elder Wei dropped him. Pretty roughly, too. It was lucky that Leonard hadn't suffered anything worse than mild annoyance since that last battle with the Incarnation.

The plant fiber sack was removed from his head then, and he could finally see again. Leonard blinked as the soft light hit his eyes, and he found himself standing in a misty clearing. The air was almost impossibly thick with swirling fog, which seemed alive as it drifted around him. He could make out a dozen floating flames in the hazy distance, each a different color. They hovered silently in the mist, pulsing with a strange, rhythmic energy.

Orcs really loved theatrics. He'd known that after spending a few months fighting the Incursion with them, but this went beyond his expectations.

Elder Wei was gone. She had disappeared as soon as she dropped him, vanishing into the mist without a word. Leonard wasn't surprised; she was not one for unnecessary pleasantries. He had once seen her rip the head off a deer and eat its brain while talking with a very flustered nobleman.

He instinctively tried to peer deeper into the fog, his enhanced eyesight straining to make out what lay beyond. But the moment he did, the oath tightened like an iron band around his chest, reminding him of the terms he had agreed to—he wasn't allowed to cheat. With a sigh, he let go of his attempt and stood straight, waiting for whatever would come next.

An aged voice broke the silence, tone muffled and distorted by the fog, making it impossible to tell where it was coming from or who it belonged to. Leonard could only tell that it was old, but there was no hint of gender or identity. "Who are you?" the voice asked.

Leonard stood tall and answered calmly. "Leonard Weiss. Grand Marshal of the Revolution and Hero of the Light."

There was a brief pause, and then the voice spoke again. "What did you come for?"

Leonard nearly smirked at that. He was tempted to quip that he hadn't come here of his own accord and had been brought by force, but he swallowed the remark. There was no point in snarking at the elders. Instead, he answered plainly but firmly. "I'm here to prove my worth as the leader of the Darkwood orcs."

The mist swirled more violently for a moment, and then the voice spoke again, this time with more clarity and purpose. "Each of us will ask you a question. You must answer honestly. Your responses will determine your fate."

Leonard nodded, keeping his posture relaxed but ready. He had expected this, after all. He knew how the orcs valued strength and wisdom. Receiving the elders' approval was absolutely necessary if one wanted to be recognized as legitimate. He'd play along with their little games if it meant he'd get what he wanted.

The first flame drifted forward, a soft blue light casting eerie shadows in the mist. When it spoke, its voice was soft but carried the weight of authority: "What is your vision of leadership?"

Leonard didn't hesitate. "A good leader is one that doesn't hesitate to do what he knows is needed for his people. The most pressing need facing Hetnia right now is achieving freedom for all. It will take a while, but every day, we get closer. My role is to create a just society where everyone can pursue their own path regardless of their origins. Leadership is about guiding others toward that goal, not ruling over them with an iron fist."

The blue flame receded, and a second flame, this one a deep crimson, floated closer. "What are your goals in the military campaign?" This voice was sharper, probing for more than surface answers.

And wasn't this the question everyone in charge of the neighboring states was asking themselves? He could avoid answering directly, but that would probably go against the rules, and he sincerely doubted any of the orc elders would sell non-provable information to a king thousands of miles away. Leonard's eyes hardened in resolve as he responded. "First, to take Hetnia. Then, Haylich. After that, I will export the Revolution to the ends of the world. The corrupt rulers of this world have held power for too long, and they will not give it up willingly. If we want a world of equals, we must be willing to fight for it."

There was a moment of silence, and then the crimson flame drifted back into the mist. The third flame approached. It was a bright, golden yellow. "What have you accomplished?" This voice was curious, almost challenging.

"I've defeated an Incarnation of the Void. I've led armies against impossible odds. I've liberated entire cities and united factions that have warred for centuries." Leonard paused momentarily, then added, "I've seen the cost of failure, and I've ensured my people will never have to pay it."

Several flames flickered, and he heard the faintest sound of surprise—a few gasps, perhaps. He had glossed over the first part, but he had just admitted something much more significant than simply stating his wish to bring freedom to other countries. The creatures birthed from the void came in many shapes and sizes and, more importantly, power levels. Void Scourges were widely known to be the most dangerous creatures, but some ancient records spoke of something greater than that. The Incarnation of the Void appeared vanishingly rarely and was said to herald the End Times.

Had this been any other situation, Leonard expected the elders would have dismissed his words despite the might he had shown. With an active spell ensuring he couldn't lie without breaking it, they had no choice but to accept it.

The golden flame retreated, and a fourth, a deep green, replaced it. "What will you do with the orcs once you have been named warchief?" This voice was softer, but there was an undercurrent of suspicion as if it expected him to give the wrong answer.

Now, this was a sensitive subject. His presence had put off many orcs. There hadn't been widespread protests only because Grakkor had personally vouched for him, and other warriors could back his word about his capabilities. That didn't mean anyone relished in the idea of allowing a human to become warchief. He'd have his work cut out for him when he won. "Those warriors who want to fight will be given the opportunity to wet their blades against the royal armies. They know my word is true when I say I have no mercy left for the slavers. But those who wish to live peacefully will be protected. The orcs will have a place in the new world, whether as warriors, traders, craftspeople, or anything else they choose."

The green flame seemed to consider his words before fading back into the mist. Next, another flame, a rich purple, floated forward. "How will you handle integration?" The question was direct and left no wiggle room.

Luckily, Leonard had expected this. "I will respect the local village as a majority orc one. But I will encourage peaceful trade and settlement with other communities. Those who wish to live among the orcs will be welcomed as long as they come in peace. And for those orcs who wish to leave and find their place elsewhere, I will help them do so."

The purple flame nodded—or at least it seemed to—and then withdrew. The final flame, a deep, shadowy black, hovered closer than the others had. "And how will you rule?" The voice was deep, almost menacing as if it dared him to slip up. The mist still muffled it, but Leonard was quite sure this was Grakkor himself.

Leonard met the challenge head-on. "Power is an unfortunate necessity. In an ideal world, wise men would rule without the need for an iron fist to enforce their decisions. But I've seen the horrors of allowing corruption to run rampant. If I must be the iron fist to prevent that, then I will be the hardest one that the world has ever seen. I will not allow the people's suffering to be prolonged by greed or cruelty."

The black flame lingered for a moment longer than the others before finally retreating. The mist around him began to swirl faster, the flames drifting back to their original positions, and the silence followed was heavy with expectation.

Finally, the aged voice spoke once more, its tone carrying a sense of finality. "You have answered truthfully, Leonard the Hero. We will deliberate. You are free to go back."

And the mist parted behind him, showing the way back to the camp.

The forest was dark, with only the faintest traces of starlight filtering through the thick canopy above. The usual nighttime sounds of the Darkwood accompanied him—rustling leaves, distant animal calls, and the occasional snap of a branch underfoot. He could almost let himself relax after the tension of the trial.

But as he drew closer to the orc camp, something felt off.

The first sign was the faint echo of raised voices, too far away to make out any words but loud enough to set his instincts on edge. That wasn't normal. Orcs were loud by nature but in the middle of a Leadership Trial? This was supposed to be a quiet, solemn period of reflection and focus. No one would dare disturb it without a very good reason.

The closer he got, the louder the noise became—voices raised in anger, the clash of steel on steel, the unmistakable sounds of battle. Leonard's senses flared to life, taking in every detail. The orc camp was on high alert. He even went so far as to call upon Dyeus, which appeared at his side as faithfully as ever in an instant.

He tightened his grip around its pommel as he moved faster, cutting through the thick brush until he finally broke through to the massive clearing where the village was set up. It didn't take long to spot the source of the commotion. At the back of the camp, two warriors were locked in combat, their colossal swords clashing with enough force to shake the ground.

Neer and Hussa.

Chapter 101 - Knots Unravel - Neer 7

Allowing the brutish elder to kidnap Sir Leonard went against every instinct baked in Neer's body, but he had been very clear that she wasn't to interfere with the trials, and she wasn't about to disobey.

Still, having spent the better part of her life as a bodyguard, Neer had to fight the urge to catch up with her leader and free him. To avoid doing anything foolish, she hadn't gone back to bed, knowing it'd be useless to try and catch some sleep. Instead, she walked to the edges of the encampment, looking for a place to practice in peace and work out some of her stress.

As stealthily as she could make it, she called upon her mana, attempting to go through her routine without being noticed by anyone whose senses might be fine-tuned enough.

Just as she was getting into a groove and her worries were fading away, she picked up someone trying to be sneaky.

"Treon might have become safe for you, but walking around at night in an orc camp is not a great idea, kid." Neer sighed, putting down her weapon. It looked like she wasn't getting any time for herself, unfortunately.

"Ah, sorry." Came the sheepish voice, and Oliver walked out from behind a rock, scratching the back of his head. "I didn't mean to bother you."

Neer let out a low chuckle, shaking her head as she wiped a few drops of sweat from her brow. "You're not bothering me. Just figured you might get into trouble if you keep sneaking around like that." She turned to face him, her large, imposing frame towering over the young man, though her expression was more amused than threatening.

Oliver grinned sheepishly, still fidgeting with the straps of his light armor. "Yeah, I get that. But, honestly, I couldn't sleep either. I keep thinking about everything—Sir Leonard, the trials, the dryad…"

Neer crossed her arms and tilted her head. "You're worried about him, huh?"

Oliver hesitated for a moment before nodding. "Yeah. I mean, I know he's strong—stronger than anyone I know of—but these trials are different. The orcs don't want the most powerful man. They're different from what I expected. I mean, I knew they weren’t goblins who'll mostly obey anyone strong enough. But I didn’t expect them to follow their traditions to the letter, and I keep thinking that Leonard might have a harder time winning them over than he thinks."

Neer narrowed her eyes slightly, studying him. The kid was smart, no doubt about that. He had good instincts, even if he was still green. "Leonard will win," she said firmly. "I have no doubt about that. He's got more power in his pinky than everyone else here combined, and he’s the best leader I’ve ever known. The orcs will recognize that even if it takes some time."

"But…" Oliver began, glancing around the camp to ensure no one was eavesdropping. "Do you think they'll accept him even if he’s human? I mean, knowing they'll be led away from their lands?"

Neer exhaled through her nose. "Some will. Others… might resist, at least at first. The orcs respect strength, but they're also stubborn as hell. Just like with humans, there are always those who don't want to see change, who are afraid of it. That's where the real challenge lies."

Oliver frowned, mulling over her words. "So, you're saying the hard part won't be to win the trials and lead them into battle. It's convincing them afterward that Leonard is the right choice that will be hard, right?"

Neer nodded. "Exactly. Winning the trials is the first step, but ensuring the orcs stay unified under his leadership is the real challenge. You have to remember they are currently one big tribe only because they lost so much to the Incursion, and Grakkor was the only Champion capable of protecting them while they rebuilt. Once they get their feet back together, they will challenge the status quo, whether under another warchief they recognize as worthy like Grakkor or an overwhelming force like Leonard."

It was a more serious discussion than Neer wanted to have out in the open. Yes, she wasn't saying anything anyone with a brain didn't already know, but that didn't mean letting every druid or shaman in the vicinity listen to her thoughts was a good idea.

They stood in silence for a moment, the sounds of the night filling the air around them. Then, Neer glanced at Oliver, a sly smile tugging at the corner of her lips. "Tell you what, kid. Since we're both up and can't seem to relax, how about I teach you a few strikes? You've been practicing your basic skills, right?"

Oliver rolled his eyes, for once looking like any other teenager. "Yeah, I have!" Then, under her unflinching stare, he crumbled, "But… well, there's this one skill I still can't quite get right. It's kind of embarrassing because it's expected to be good at it for any paladin worth their salt… I also might have kept it hidden from Sir Leonard."

Neer raised an eyebrow. "Oh? Which one?"

"Bash," Oliver admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. "I just can't seem to get the hang of it. I know it's supposed to be simple, but…"

Neer laughed, clapping him on the shoulder hard enough to make him stumble. "Bash, huh? That's a good one. Simple, sure, but not easy."

"Yeah, I remember Sir Leonard saying that it was the kind of thing that you either got immediately or had to spend a stupid amount of time perfecting. I guess I'm the second…" he grumbled.

"Alright, show me what you have." Gesturing to the empty space around them, Neer pushed the kid with the other hand. If he wanted her help, he had to show where he was.

Grabbing one of the many wooden shields hanging around the training area, Oliver settled into a stance and, after a brief moment in which he called upon a significant amount of mana, he charged forward. His shield lit up with energy as he did, and his steps became heavy, almost as if inexorable. But by the end of it, the problem became apparent.

He can't follow through. He's crazy talented and has the best mana control I've seen in anyone under Expert, but that might be actually hurting him. He's so good at it that he can compensate for any mistake.

When he turned his big, hopeful eyes to her, she almost felt bad for her frown, but she couldn't afford to be overly kind. "That was shit."

"Aw, man."

"The key to Bash isn't just brute strength or great mana control—it's about overwhelming whatever's in front of you. It's about channeling that force, that will to break through, into a single, focused charge."

Oliver straightened up, paying close attention to her words. "So, I shouldn’t just weave the pattern and hit hard?"

Neer shook her head. "Nope. You lack intent. When you use Bash, you need to feel that drive, that desire to break through, to overwhelm whatever's in your way. That's what gives the skill its power. You have to want it, deep down. It's one of those cases where too much of a good thing is bad. You are concentrating too much on the magical aspect rather than on the actual execution. Bash is not a spell; no matter that the magicians think skills are just spells wrapped in another form, they are fundamentally different. The mana pattern in skills is there to aid you. It's not the skill itself."

Oliver nodded, determination gleaming in his eyes. "Alright, I think I understand, but could you show me one time how it's done properly?"

Neer grinned and grabbed a shield of her own from the nearby rack, stepping back and motioning for him to take a stance. "Watch closely."

Her body coiled with power, and even though she only took a single step, the air rippled with the force of the blow as she brought her shield forward in a controlled, forceful strike. "See? Focus your energy, feel that drive, and then let it all go in one decisive motion. You have to want it.”

Oliver nodded and adjusted his stance, mimicking her movements. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes for a brief moment, and when he opened them again, his gaze took on a new intensity. He swung his shield, and though it wasn't perfect, Neer could see the improvement in his form—there was more determination, more intent behind it.

"Better," Neer said, nodding in approval. "Keep practicing. You'll get there."

Oliver smiled brightly at her show of confidence. He resumed his practice, each time coming closer to the ideal of the skill. Neer watched him with satisfaction, pleased to see his progress. It wouldn't take long for him to get it down.

That was when she felt it. Given Oliver’s significant mana usage, Neer was prepared so she didn’t miss as a subtle presence approached.

She turned her head slightly, sharpening her senses as she caught sight of Hussa stepping into the clearing. The orc moved with the quiet grace of a predator, her eyes locked on Neer’s.

"Is this what you really want to do with your life?" Hussa's voice was low, almost a growl, as she stopped a few paces away.

Neer frowned, her grip tightening on her weapon as she straightened up. "What do you mean?"

Hussa's eyes flicked to Oliver, who was still practicing, oblivious to the tension in the air. "Helping that man's apprentice. Training him, serving him… You must be more human than orc if you're willing to live so subserviently."

Neer clenched her jaw, anger flaring in her chest. She took a deep breath, remembering Leonard's orders to keep things calm. She forced herself to swallow her rage, her voice coming out as a low, controlled growl. "Helping a friend's apprentice is not debasing. It's called loyalty."

Hussa snorted, a mocking laugh escaping her lips. "Loyalty? To a human? You're broken, Neer. Real orcs would never allow themselves to be owned by a human. Even if it means dying, we'd rather fight than submit."

Neer's fists tightened, knuckles cracking as she fought to keep her temper in check. She glared at Hussa, hissing with barely suppressed fury. "I am not broken. I follow Leonard because I choose to. You don't understand anything of what I've been through or what real strength is."

I was an idiot to think she might understand me. Just because she's a pureblood doesn't mean her opinions are better than anyone else's. That must be why Leonard looked so disappointed when I listened to her as if she were the only source of truth.

Hussa's laughter echoed in the clearing, cold and derisive. "Keep telling yourself that. But deep down, you know the truth. Orcs don't bend to humans. You're just too weak to face it."

Neer clenched her teeth, her rage bubbling beneath the surface like a storm barely held in check. Hussa's words cut deep, slicing into her pride. Had this been any other occasion, she'd have answered the provocation with a duel, but she couldn't mess this up for Leonard, and something told her it would be playing in Hussa's hands.

The orc watched her with a predatory smile, clearly relishing the sight of Neer's frustration. When Neer didn't respond or lash out as Hussa had expected, the latter took a step closer, her eyes gleaming maliciously. She moved with purpose into the training area, hungrily looking at Oliver, who was still absorbed in his practice.

The squire noticed the shift in the atmosphere a heartbeat too late. By the time he looked up, Hussa was already in his space, looming over him with a sneer. "Let me show you a real bash," she said, dripping with venom. Before Neer could react, Hussa swung the broad side of her warhammer forward in a brutal, sweeping strike aimed directly at his chest.

Instinct and training kicked in, and Oliver barely managed to enhance his body at the last second, diving out of the way as the lump of metal whistled through the air, narrowly missing him. He hit the ground hard, rolling to his feet, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he stared at Hussa in shock.

Neer's roar of fury split the night.

Chapter 102 - Oh Blessed One - Oliver 10

Oliver felt his bones rattle. The sound coming from Neer was so primal, so filled with pent-up rage that he barely managed to get up. "Enough!" she bellowed, shaking the clearing.

Hussa grinned widely, the challenge lighting up her eyes. "Finally," she dropped into a combat stance as she beheld Neer. "I was wondering when you'd show some spine." She roared back, the two warriors now locked in a standoff that crackled with tension.

Oliver used the moment of stillness to cast [Heal] on himself. He wasn't really hurt, but being forced to withstand such powerful auras while tired and achy when he could do something about it was stupid.

Neer didn't hesitate much longer. She jumped at Hussa with a speed and ferocity that would have surprised most Experts. The massive orc, however, was ready. She met Neer's charge head-on, and their weapons clashed with deafening force. Sparks flew from the impact, the sheer power behind their strikes sending shockwaves through the clearing.

Neer's movements were fueled by righteous anger; she obviously aimed to quickly take down the arrogant orc who dared threaten her and her companions. But Hussa was no slouch either. She blocked and parried with skill, grinning all the while as if she was enjoying every second of it.

"You think you're better than me, half-blood?" Hussa taunted between clashes. "You think following a human makes you stronger? You're nothing but a puppet!"

Neer's eyes blazed with fury, but she didn't let the words distract her. She pressed her attack, forcing Hussa to retreat a step. "You don't know anything about me or why I fight!" she snarled.

Hussa let out a derisive laugh, "Is that what your master has been filling your head with? Empty words to keep you in line? Orcs don't need ideals—we need strength, blood, and victory!"

Neer ducked under a wild swing and delivered a punishing strike to Hussa's side, sending her stumbling back. "And what's the point of strength if you're just another mindless brute? You talk about freedom, but all you care about is being a slave to your own instincts!"

Hussa roared in frustration and came at Neer with renewed fury. To Oliver’s eyes, their fight was now a blur of motion and raw power. The ground repeatedly cracked under the force of their blows, forcing him back.

He watched from the sidelines, heart pounding in his chest as the two titans warred. He knew better than to interfere—stepping in would only worsen things for Neer. And yet, he couldn't help but feel a strong desire to help her. She was good, but so was Hussa, and this fight could easily go either way.

Helpless, Oliver kept staring, clenching his fists, torn between his instincts to help and his understanding of the situation.

Neer and Hussa's brutal fight kept escalating with every passing moment, their strikes growing heavier and more desperate. Blood already dripped from cuts and bruises as they fought far more savagely than any duel he had ever witnessed, even during the war. They were genuinely trying to kill each other, and the more they fought, the greater the damage was done to the training grounds—Oliver was sure that the mess had woken everyone in the camp by now.

Neer was incredibly talented, gracefully moving through skills, aiming to maximize the damage every time she landed a hit. But Hussa had the advantage of raw physical power and relentless experience. She absorbed blows that would have felled lesser fighters, grinning through the pain as she used her size and strength to overwhelm Neer little by little.

As the fight raged on, Oliver found it more challenging to stay on back. His hands twitched at the hilt of his sword, and he grew weary at every swing of Neer's blade, every counterattack from Hussa. He could see Neer starting to falter, her breath coming in ragged gasps, her once-perfect footwork slipping as she struggled to keep up with her opponent's relentless assault.

That's when he noticed movement from the corner of his eye. A figure approached him from the main camp—one of the younger orcs he had chatted with during the earlier ceremony. Timor, if he remembered correctly. Only this time, his friendly demeanor had vanished, replaced by a cold expression.

"Stay out of it," Timor growled threateningly. He wasn't carrying any weapons aside from leather gauntlets, but the tension in his stance made it clear that he was ready to fight if necessary.

Oliver's heart sank. Orc customs were strict when it came to duels—interfering was seen as dishonorable, even cowardly. But as much as Oliver wanted to respect their traditions, he couldn't just stand by and watch Neer be killed. Sir Leonard would understand.

"She's going to die if I don't help," Oliver muttered, more to himself than to the orc in front of him.

"That's her fight," Timor replied harshly. "She chose this. Interfering now would dishonor her more than losing."

Oliver clenched his fists, his mind racing. He knew the orc was right from his perspective. He knew Neer would hate him for stepping in and treating her like she couldn't handle herself, especially since he was a whole tier below her and would put himself in grave danger if he interfered. But he also knew that if he let this continue, she would be killed.

His decision was made in a heartbeat. Neer's life was more important than any custom or code of honor. Leonard had given him orders to keep things from escalating should anything happen, but this mess had already gone too far. He couldn't let Neer die for the sake of tradition.

Without another word, Oliver drew his sword. The young orc's eyes widened in surprise, but he quickly recovered, a snarl forming on his lips.

"So be it," he growled, stepping into a fighting stance.

Oliver just had the presence of mind to realize that his mentor's burning presence was coming closer, that Timor was on him, swinging a meaty fist that would have splattered his face on the ground had he been a little slower.

Again, Oliver barely reacted in time, instinctively ducking under the orc's fist. The sheer force of the punch whistled past his ear, leaving him acutely aware of just how dangerous his opponent was. Timor might not have been as skilled as Neer or Hussa, but he was still an orc warrior—strong, fast, and unrelenting. If Oliver wasn't careful, this fight could end badly for him before he even got to help Neer.

But Oliver had something Timor didn't. With a flick of his wrist, he activated [Anointment], channeling the Light into his sword. The normally blunt and harmless training blade now gleamed with a faint, holy glow. It wouldn't cut as deep as his personal sword, but it would cut. And that was all he needed.

Timor hesitated for a fraction of a second, eyes narrowing at the sight of the newly glowing weapon. That was all the opening Oliver needed. He dashed forward, slashing at Timor's midsection faster than the orc expected. The blade bit into the tough, leathery skin—not deep enough to cause serious damage, but enough to draw blood and make Timor grunt in surprise.

The orc stepped back, instinctively bringing a hand to his wound. His eyes glowed with anger, and he let out a bellow of pain. He charged again, this time with even more fury, swinging wildly with both fists.

Oliver sidestepped the first punch, then ducked under the second. Timor's strength was terrifying for a Journeyman—enough to put him on par with a weak Expert, if on that aspect alone— but his attacks were predictable, telegraphed by his frustration. As the second punch failed to get anywhere near him, Oliver saw his opening. He darted in close, slamming the pommel of his sword into the orc's chin with all the force he could muster.

Timor's head snapped back, and Oliver didn't waste the opportunity. He followed up with a devastating kick to the orc's gut and then drove his knee into the vulnerable spot just below the ribs. Timor doubled over, gasping for breath, and Oliver brought the flat of his blade down on the back of the orc's head in a single, powerful motion.

The impact sent Timor crashing to the ground, unconscious before he even hit the dirt.

Oliver stood over the fallen orc, his heart pounding in his chest. He could feel the Light mana coursing through him, stronger than ever before. Victory surged in his veins, filling him with a sense of power and purpose that was almost overwhelming. But there was no time to dwell on it—not with Neer still in danger.

He turned, eyes locking on the duel between Neer and Hussa just in time to see Hussa deliver a brutal kick to Neer's side. The sickening crack of ribs breaking reached Oliver's ears, and his blood ran cold.

Neer staggered back, clutching her side, her face twisted in pain. Hussa loomed over her, grinning savagely, clearly enjoying the sight of her opponent's suffering.

Oliver didn't think. He moved.

With a burst of speed that surprised even himself, he sprinted toward the duel, his sword glowing with enough Light to drive the night back. Hussa barely had time to react before he was upon her.

The orc still managed to jump back, dodging his strike by a hair's breadth. Her grin faded, replaced by a look of shock and irritation. "You!" she snarled, her eyes blazing with fury. "This isn't your fight, human!"

Oliver didn't respond. He was too far gone, too full of holy fervor to care about anything but stopping her. He pressed his attack, his strikes coming faster and faster, each forcing Hussa to retreat or dodge. She was stronger than any opponent he had faced before, but at this moment, Oliver felt invincible.

Hussa swung her warhammer, aiming to squash him. But Oliver moved with unnatural speed, ducking away from the deadly strike and countering with a slash aimed at her leg. Hussa leaped back, avoiding the blade by inches, but she was on the defensive now. For the first time, Oliver saw fear in her eyes.

It was then that he realized what had happened. He had done it—he had achieved his third blessing. The holy Light burned brighter within him than ever before, filling him with strength, clarity, and purpose. Every movement felt effortless, every strike perfectly timed. He was no longer just a warrior—he was a vessel for the Light, a conduit for divine power.

Hussa roared in frustration, swinging wildly at him, but Oliver was beyond her now. He dodged and weaved through her attacks, his own strikes forcing her back step by step. He wasn't just slowing her like he had first planned—he was overwhelming her, pushing her to the brink.

Oliver laughed madly.

The Light was with him! Every worry, every foolish thought was put to rest. How could he ever be wrong when the greatest force in the universe stated its support for him so clearly?

Any thought about his mentor was forgotten in the wake of the overwhelming might coursing through his veins.

He needed to punish this infidel. Show the world why the Light was so worshipped. Why he, Sir Oliver, would lead its armies!

Hussa's green skin took a reddish hue, and even through the haze, Oliver realized that she was finally taking him seriously. Runes he didn't recognize appeared on her chest and face, and the she-orc let out a roar so powerful it shook the earth below them for hundreds of feet.

Oliver grinned, ceding even more of himself to the divine to face the monster. His training sword was barely recognizable now, so infused with Light it was. Its wood had long since disintegrated under the strain, and only the bone pommel remained, acting as a conduit for his power.

He took a step, lifting his weapon and preparing to end it.

Everything went black.

Chapter 103 - Self-Reflection - Neer 8

To say that she was embarrassed would be a wild understatement.

Not only had she lost control and given in to an enemy's provocation, but she had been too weak to end the fight she had started and even needed to be saved by what should have been her protege.

Neer was used to lying to herself. It was a necessary skill to survive her days as a slave. But she could also tell when doing so would be counterproductive.

I have fucked up. Badly. I was deceived and then goaded. No, it's even worse. I allowed myself to be deceived because I wanted to believe the lie that was being presented. I have always considered the orcs honorable if simple beings that would never allow for the cruelties I lived through, and when Hussa presented me with that image, I went along with it. When that came crashing down, I did exactly what my enemy wanted me to do because I was too angry to think.

Sitting in a rudimentary cell, guarded by a shaman strong enough to send her to sleep should she prove belligerent, Neer had a lot of time to think. An entire day had gone by, and the more she reflected on the path that had led her to where she was, the more she realized just how easily Hussa had taken her for a ride.

And to think that Leonard had even sent her several hints about what was happening! Oh, Neer had initially been furious with him when she realized he knew she was being deceived and hadn't told her, but after the initial anger had passed and she had time to cool, she understood.

I was always going to hit this roadblock. Having been enslaved by humans, it's quite predictable that I would develop a sense of kinship for my other half, even without ever realizing it consciously. I was able to overcome most of my anger and prejudice about humans on my own through experience, but I never met orcs before. Well, not a society of orcs.

The first light of dawn filtered through the wooden slats of her cell, casting pale beams onto the rough floor. Neer felt a bit of hope that she would finally get to talk with her companions today, as her guard had promised last night.

She had spent the night wide awake, wrestling with her thoughts. The duel had been a disaster, a collision of pride, anger, and misguided expectations. But in the quiet solitude of her cell, Neer found clarity. She had been too quick to judge, too eager to prove herself to people she barely understood, much less could claim as her own. The realization stung more than any of her injuries.

Her body still ached from the fight, especially where Hussa's kick had cracked her ribs. She could have healed herself, but she was unwilling to provoke her keepers despite not being restricted from her mana. Better she suffer a bit more and let it be a lesson than risk doing more damage to Leonard's quest. The purple bruise throbbed with every breath, but it was nothing compared to the heaviness in her chest—the weight of her failure.

She closed her eyes and exhaled slowly, forcing herself to confront the truth: she had underestimated her people, simplifying them into honorable warriors in her mind, oh so different from the humans who had enslaved her. But orcs weren't monolithic—they were just as complex and flawed as anyone else. Hussa had shown her that.

The sound of soft footsteps drew her attention. Neer opened her eyes to see the shaman guarding her approaching with a wooden bowl in hand. He was an older orc, his skin weathered and marked with deep lines, his long gray hair tied back in a loose braid. His eyes, though, were sharp and clear, watching her with quiet intensity.

"Your morning meal," he said, handing her the bowl through the cell's wooden bars.

Neer nodded her thanks, taking the bowl. It was filled with a simple vegetable mash and dried meats, warm and hearty, though unseasoned. She ate slowly, more out of habit than appetite, her mind still occupied with the previous day's events.

She glanced up at the shaman. "What of my companions?" she asked, voice rough from disuse.

The old orc regarded her for a moment before replying. "They'll be here soon. The kid woke up late last night, and the Hero successfully passed the Trial."

Neer exhaled, feeling a small wave of relief. She had feared the worst for Oliver, especially after seeing how things had spiraled out of control. But knowing he was safe took a weight off her shoulders. That Leonard had passed whatever test the orcs had planned didn't surprise her since he had been the one to save her after Oliver went down, but she still appreciated the news. She continued eating, though her mind raced with what she would say to them.

True to the shaman's word, it wasn't long before she heard more footsteps approaching. Neer set down the empty bowl and stood, wincing slightly as her ribs protested the movement. She took a steadying breath and braced herself for whatever conversation awaited.

He might be angry enough to cast me away. He won't punish me physically. He's too good for that. But it might hurt me more to lose my position. Well, I have no one to blame but myself.

The door to her cell opened, and Leonard stepped inside, followed closely by Oliver. Neer's breath caught at the sight of them—Leonard, as calm and composed as ever, and Oliver, looking sheepish but unharmed. If anything, the boy seemed to radiate a new energy. The chaos of the previous day had left him stronger.

The shaman moved away, giving them privacy. Leonard glanced in his direction before turning his attention to Neer. "No one else can hear us," he assured her neutrally. He stepped closer, his eyes searching hers. "I hope you've had time to reflect."

Neer didn't waste a moment. "I have," she said steadily. "And I need to apologize."

Oliver looked at her in surprise and opened his mouth. Neer held up a hand, signaling that she wasn't done.

"I didn't intend for things to get so out of hand," she continued, meeting Leonard's gaze directly. "But that doesn't excuse my failure. I should have seen what was happening and realized that Hussa was playing me much sooner. I fell right into her trap, and in doing so, I endangered the mission. I also understand that this in no way makes up for my failure."

She swallowed hard, her chest tightening. "I accept whatever punishment is necessary for my error. I've brought dishonor to myself and the Revolution."

Leonard remained silent for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Oliver, however, shifted uncomfortably beside him, glancing between them. Finally, the boy couldn't take it any longer.

"It's not your fault," Oliver blurted out, his voice filled with guilt. "I—I was the one who got used to provoke you. And then I made things worse by losing control of my Blessing. I let the Light overwhelm me and had to be saved when I got in over my head." He looked down at his feet, shame written all over his face. "I'm sorry, Neer. I'm sorry, Sir."

Leonard sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Yes," he said, his voice weary but not unkind. "You both made mistakes, and there will be consequences for them. The performance you two put on lowered our standing in the eyes of the orc clans, no doubt. But…” He paused, looking between Neer and Oliver. "The competition isn't over. Your mistakes are not final."

Neer blinked in surprise. She had expected harsher words, perhaps even exile. Light knew her old master had done much worse for a lot less. But Leonard's calmness unsettled her more than any reprimand might have. He wasn't angry, just disappointed. And that stung more than she could put into words.

He was the man she owed everything to. He had been the one to save her from slavery. He had been the one to give her purpose and guide her as she emerged from the shadows.

Leonard turned his attention back to Neer. "You'll come with us after this," he told her. “You still need to attend the final Trial as my companion. And if we succeed, you'll be free."

Neer nodded, a strange mixture of relief and apprehension swirling in her chest. She had expected punishment, but Leonard was giving her another chance instead. She wouldn't waste it.

Then he looked at Oliver, and his gaze softened slightly. "As for you," he said, "we've talked about control before, haven't we? Your connection to the Light is powerful, Oliver, but power without control is dangerous—to yourself and those around you." He placed a hand on the boy's shoulder. "But you've come a long way. I'm proud of how far you've come. Now, we just need to keep working on that. So that the next time you receive a Blessing, you won't pick a fight with someone out of your league."

Oliver nodded, looking very embarrassed. "I won't let it happen again," he promised.

Leonard gave him a small, approving nod before turning back to Neer. "We have one last challenge to win, and I'll need the both of you for it," he said quietly. "Don't make me regret it."

Neer met his gaze, her determination hardening. "I won't," she vowed. "I'll be ready."

Leonard remained silent for a moment longer and then nodded. "Elder Yuw, we're done here. I'll take Neer off your hands."

The last Trial was more of a spectacle than anything before it. Every orc in the Darkwood—even those out on hunts or patrols—returned to spectate as the Guardian's presence assured its sanctity.

Watching the dyad emerge from the grass and receive the gratitude and well wishes of the tribe put things into perspective for Neer. She had known Nemas was a powerful being, of course, but hadn't seen what it actually meant. In a world without Leonard, she'd probably be the highest power in Hetnia.

Even the old warchief bowed respectfully to her and stoically endured the fae's light teasing. Though nominally independent, the orcs deeply respected Nemas and considered her the final authority in the forest.

Neer adjusted the straps of her armor, her fingers working automatically as she tightened the leather bindings. Next to her, Oliver was doing the same, his face set in a determined expression as he buckled his bracers.

The clearing stretched out before them in a massive open space easily the size of the dueling arena in Treon. The preparations had left behind trampled grass, leaving the ground bare and packed. On either side of the clearing, wooden tribunes had been erected, large enough to seat the entire Darkwood clan and tall enough that they wouldn’t miss anything. Orcs filled the seats, emitting a rumble of anticipation as they waited for the event to begin.

Neer's eyes drifted across the clearing, scanning the other contestants. Hussa stood at the opposite end, her massive frame impossible to miss. The warrior was clad in simple leather armor, but hers seemed to fit like a second skin, accentuating her muscular form. Hussa caught Neer's gaze and grinned, a feral, predatory smile that showed far too many teeth.

Neer clenched her jaw, forcing herself to look away. She wouldn't be goaded again.

Oliver glanced at her, noticing the tension in her stance. "You okay?" he asked quietly.

Neer nodded, though she didn't quite meet his eyes. "I will be," she replied. "I just need to focus. We can't afford any slip-ups today."

Oliver gave her a reassuring smile. "We've got this," he said, though his voice was nervous. He was trying to be confident for both of them, and Neer appreciated the effort.

When Leonard finally joined them, he looked much like the other contestants. Almost as tall as the orc warriors, he wore simple, functional leather armor with none of the embellishments or marks of status that one might expect from the Grand Marshal of the Revolution. Neer knew it was deliberate. Leonard aimed to blend in and let his actions speak for him rather than his appearance. Today, he was just another competitor in the Trial, no different from the others. When he won, he'd be accepted all the more for it.

He tilted his head in greeting, his expression calm and composed as always. "Are you both ready?" he asked quietly.

Neer and Oliver nodded.

A few minutes passed, and the crowd's murmur grew louder as the anticipation built. Then, Grakkor stepped into the center of the clearing. He walked with slow, ponderous steps, radiating incredible power despite his age.

He roared for silence, and it carried across the clearing with the force of a thunderclap.

The crowd quieted instantly, all eyes turning toward the warchief. He surveyed the assembled orcs with a stern gaze before speaking.

"This is the final Trial," he announced, his voice deep and resonant. "The last test to determine who among us is worthy of leading the Darkwood. Today, you will face not only your opponents but also the consequences of your choices."

Chapter 104 - Totems - Leonard 38

"Only five contenders have managed to reach the last Trial," Grakkor rumbled. "So far, they all showed their talent as hunters and wisdom as leaders. These are essential qualities for a warchief to have. And yet, they are not enough."

A low hum of agreement met his words.

"As we've seen when fighting the abominations, there are times when plans and strategies have to be put aside. Times when only one thing counts. Strength."

Roars of approval followed. Grakkor knew his audience and how to play it. Leonard would have to remember to get his counsel for future speeches.

"Individual strength. Collective strength. This last Trial will test how great the prospective leaders will make the tribes!" The old warchief stretched his arms, "Here, now, we will see who's worthy!"

Thousands of orcs watched from the towering wooden tribunes, eyes locked on the center where Grakkor and Nemas stood. The atmosphere was electric, buzzing. Leonard could feel it in the air, humming against his skin.

He glanced to his side, where his two teammates were finishing their preparations. Neer's expression was calm but intense. She'd been quiet since she'd been released from her imprisonment, and Leonard could tell she was deep in thought, processing everything that had happened, but he trusted she’d pull her weight. As for Oliver, he was visibly nervous and fidgeting, but the determination in his eyes reminded Leonard why he'd chosen the boy for this mission. He had potential—a lot of it. Few teenagers could boast of being a Journeyman, much less an Expert.

Even one liable to knock himself out by channeling too much power.

Grakkor stepped back, and the crowd fell silent as Nemas glided forward. Leonard straightened. His fae friend—as much as the alien creatures could have friends— was an influential figure revered by all the creatures that called these woods home. It wouldn’t do to appear uninterested when she spoke. These people might not have paparazzi, but word of mouth worked just as well.

As she moved to the center of the arena, the crowd erupted into wild applause, their excitement filling the air in a deafening wave. Even Leonard, who had known the dryad was revered, felt surprised by the reception. She commanded respect with ease, her very presence radiating ancient power.

A natural politician. Well, I feel better about my choice to make her governor, and at the same time, I’m slightly worried.

Nemas raised her hand, and the cheers died down, leaving a heavy silence in their wake. Her emerald hair shimmered in the light, her dark eyes sharp and knowing as they scanned the crowd. "This final Trial," she began, facing the participants, "will not only test your strength. It will test your wisdom, courage, resilience, and will. These are the pillars of orcish culture, the foundation upon which true leadership stands."

As she spoke, Leonard felt the ground shift beneath his feet. Nemas raised her hands, and the arena responded to her magic. The earth trembled, reshaping itself in a display of power that left no doubt of her masterful command over the forces of nature. Leonard watched as the clearing was divided into five distinct territories.

To the north, a jagged spire rose from the ground. To the east, a dense, misty thicket materialized. The southern part of the arena became a maze of thorny underbrush. A shimmering pool appeared to the west, glowing faintly. At the center, a tall stone column stood in the middle of a clearing, etched with a humanoid figure holding a crown.

At the heart of each territory stood a totem. Leonard observed them with his mystical sight and was unsurprised to find that they weren't just mundane objects—a bear totem in the mountain, its sheer bulk exuding raw power; an owl in the forest, its gaze sharp and calculating; a lion in the maze, roaring with untamed bravery; a turtle by the water, solid and enduring. But it was the mighty griffin in the center that drew Leonard's attention. Its wings were spread wide as if preparing to soar, and it represented the very thing Leonard had been striving for since arriving in the Darkwood: the right to lead.

Nemas lowered her hands, her magic retreating from the transformed arena like an undertow. "Each totem grants a boon to those who claim it," she explained, scrutinizing the contestants. "Strength, wisdom, courage, resilience, and finally, the griffin’s leadership.”

Leonard could feel Neer tense beside him, eyes locked on the center totem. He spared a glance at Oliver, who seemed wide-eyed but focused, his gaze flicking from the totems to the other contestants.

Before anyone could move, Grakkor's voice rang out once more. "Take your places! The Trial begins when the sun reaches its peak. You will have until sundown to claim the totems and defend them. If more than one team still stands by then, the elders will deliberate depending on the performance.”

Leonard crafted a [Veil of Silence] out of habit. "We go for the griffin totem first. They haven't said it explicitly, but it's unlikely they'll declare a winner that hasn’t taken it. It will also put a target on us, but we already were one."

Neer nodded determinedly while Oliver swallowed but gave a firm nod of his own. Leonard knew the boy was nervous after the mess he had made but trusted him to pull through when it counted.

The sun climbed higher in the sky. A low horn sounded, echoing across the clearing. It was the signal—the Trial had begun.

As they moved toward the center, Leonard kept his eyes on the other contestants. Hussa and her team were heading for the mountain, even as she kept leering with savage intent. She caught Neer's gaze one last time and grinned as she disappeared behind a newly formed hill, but Neer didn't take the bait.

Leonard unsheathed his sword, a simple iron blade enchanted for durability. It wasn't Dyeus, the holy blade he usually carried into battle, because this Trial demanded an even playing field. No one could claim an advantage based on personal equipment or powerful artifacts, and while he could still have grabbed a better weapon, he didn’t need it.

No one will be able to dispute my victory.

He glanced at Neer and Oliver. "Be prepared for anything," he ordered firmly. "I'll keep an eye on our surroundings. I want you both to focus on following my orders. We're the smallest team here, but that doesn't matter. As long as our hearts stay true, we'll win."

Neer gave him a grim nod. Oliver finally stopped fidgeting and exhaled. Once he opened his eyes, Leonard could see his worries being put aside. His squire was ready.

"I trust both of you," Leonard added, softening his tone. "We are at the last stretch. Let's win this and return to the army with a thousand orc warriors at our side."

As they got closer to the carved griffin at the center of the arena, Leonard felt its power stir in the air. The totem began to glow with a bright, golden light, its power extending toward the three of them. Leonard paused for a moment, feeling the magic unsuccessfully tug at him—its effects were subtle but potent. A slight boost in strength, heightened awareness, and a cool clarity in his thoughts. He could feel its intent, but his natural magical defenses were too strong. The magic was there, waiting for permission with a refinement that exceeded a mortal's ability to induce. And yet, despite Nemas' skill, it couldn't affect him without his consent.

"Neer," he said, "remind me to look into this spell after the Trial. It could be useful for the army commanders if it's not too complicated."

Neer nodded, chuckling lightly under her breath at the thought of teaching fae magic to human soldiers, appreciating the momentary levity before the fight. "I'll make sure to remind you, sir. We can't allow those slackers to rest too long, or they might go soft."

Leonard grinned and allowed the spell to take hold, feeling the magic integrate smoothly with his natural senses. The clarity was barely noticeable, with how far above its level he was, but the increased awareness was useful. He scanned the terrain with greater ease, thinking through their next moves.

The changes to the arena made it impossible to see where the other teams were. Only the bleachers, standing above the tree line, were visible, but they were too far to be useful as a point of reference. But Leonard had chosen the center precisely because it would mean the others would do the walking for him.

His expectations didn't take long to be confirmed.

"Incoming," Leonard warned quietly. He gestured to the south, where he could sense that a group of four orcs was approaching. They weren't visible yet, hidden by the trees Nemas had created, but it only took a minute of waiting before they emerged. Their leader, a tall, wiry orc with a curved blade, led the charge. Leonard recognized him from the campaign against the Void—a fierce fighter and a capable tactician. Ulmar, if he wasn’t wrong.

"They took the courage totem," Leonard said, eyes narrowing as he cast his senses further, not needing to scry, thanks to the boost. "It's likely they're immune to fear and have offensive boosts. And they've left a few behind to guard their totem."

The orc leader caught sight of Leonard and raised a hand in greeting, his tusks flashing in a grin. "Leonard of the Otherworld," he called, his voice carrying across the field. "Will you surrender now and save us all the trouble?"

Leonard's lips twitched into a small smile. He greeted the orc with a respectful nod before replying, "I wouldn't dishonor you by surrendering without a fight, Ulmar."

The orc laughed, a deep, booming sound that seemed to echo with genuine amusement. "Then let's see what you've got, human."

The four orcs spread out with excellent coordination, each warrior taking up a different angle as they prepared to engage. Leonard's fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword. He glanced at Neer and Oliver, a silent signal passing between them—no lethal blow if it wasn't strictly necessary, but no holding back. The orcs were tough enough to take all the two could throw at them.

And then the battle began.

Leonard moved to meet Ulmar, remembering how dangerous he was with his unconventional weapons and leaving his companions to deal with the rest. He caught the first of the blades as it arched for his neck and, with a push that took the orc by surprise, entered his space, forcing him to abort the second strike.

Neer quickly intercepted two of the others before they could interfere. She roared her challenge, earning twin replies in turn, and swung her cleaver wildly, setting up a tempo that forced the orcs to concentrate solely on her.

Oliver seemed over his hangups because he called upon the Light as easily as breathing. It covered his form, settling into a holy armor, which easily withstood the first hammer blow of his opponent and allowed him to injure the orc with a speedy thrust.

While technically outnumbered and with a less experienced team, Leonard did not doubt the fight's outcome.

He noticed a small opening in the orc leader's stance as he deflected another blow and immediately exploited it, slicing through Ulmar's right sword with an application of Light upon his weapon. The charred half fell to the ground.

To his credit, the orc didn't falter and let the useless hilt drop, trying to make some distance to avoid being skewered, but Leonard could already feel others approach and didn't intend on leaving himself open to ambushes.

"Sorry about this," He said, earning a confused grunt.

With a burst of speed that surpassed anything he had shown so far, he punched Ulmar's head, putting his full weight into the blow. The poor orc didn't even have the time to understand what had happened. His unconscious body rolled to a stop against a tree.

Turning around, he prepared to end the other fights, "Alright, let's deal with these guys-"

The words died in his throat as he beheld Neer holding two limp warriors, a grin of satisfaction for a job well done finally bringing some life to her expression, while Oliver dismissed his armor, one foot over the back of his opponent.

Chapter 105 - When You Have it - Leonard 39

“This has worked out better than I expected,” Leonard admitted.

He had known to expect the other teams to target him. Taking the central totem was done precisely with that in mind. But he might have underestimated just how much the other orcs wanted to be the ones to take him out.

“You think?” Oliver asked sarcastically, avoiding a polearm thrust that would have sent him flying, bringing his sword against the hardwood and cutting it in two.

His opponent didn’t let that stop him and instead head-butted the boy, making him stagger back in surprise. Fortunately, his holy armor was still working, and the damage was only some lost momentum.

That was quickly recovered as Neer finished off her own opponent by throwing his injured form against Oliver’s, allowing the redhead to drive his sword’s pommel against the orc’s head.

Seeing that the others were done, Leonard hurried up. Rather than avoiding the arrow coming his way, he grabbed it out of the air—no mean feat, given that it was an Expert’s—and, with a heave, threw it back where it came from.

A pained cry told him that he had hit his target and, fortunately, not killed him. Resurrection was always possible, but he was waiting to use it for maximum effect when all attention was on him.

“It might have worked too well,” Leonard grumbled.

“I don’t know how sarcastic you are being, but you should know they are all coming at us because you are human. Not because of strategic reasons.” Neer sighed, walking over to the tangled orcs to ensure they didn’t bleed out.

A nearby tree groaned in response to her gesture, and a branch lowered, twisting to grab the two losers and drawing them in. They disappeared into its trunk, and the half-orc stood up, cleaning her hands of the dust. “They might respect your prowess, but that’s only another reason to fight you first. The one to defeat you will be wildly popular and likelier to win the whole thing.”

Leonard wiped nonexistent sweat from his brow in an automatic action that had long since lost its usefulness but served to make him feel human, scanning the arena as they stood victorious over the latest group that had dared to challenge them. The scattered bodies of their defeated opponents were already being pulled away by the magical trees, vanishing from sight. He had to admit, Neer was doing a very good job.

“Four groups down,” Oliver muttered, just loud enough to be heard. “And we haven’t moved an inch from here. It’s so unfair that the others can have up to seven people and split up while we are stuck.”

Leonard sighed but didn’t reprimand the boy. In a way, he agreed. He could feel battles raging in the other parts of the arena—magical flares and the dull thud of clashing steel echoed through the air, far enough away that they weren’t immediately threatened but close enough that he knew the trial wasn’t over. Each group had its strategy, and most seemed focused on claiming the other totems, granting them valuable boons that would empower them for the final fight.

But the griffin? It was the ultimate prize, and every eye had been on him from the moment he claimed it.

“Guess we’re the popular kids.” Oliver eventually sighed, wiping the dirt from his face and casting a wary glance at the surrounding trees.

Leonard couldn’t help but grin at the boy’s attempt at humor, but the truth was that staying here meant allowing the orcs to resolve the trial on their own. That wasn’t the right play now that the first wave of attacks was over. Winning wouldn’t just be determined by who held the central totem, after all—they had to make a strong showing and prove themselves.

“So, what’s the plan, Sir? We’re not just waiting for the next wave to roll in, are we?” Neer asked, echoing his thoughts. As the victories had racked up, she had relaxed more. Leonard couldn’t refute that it was part of why he had decided to stay still for so long. He had to get her head in the game for the next part.

He shook his head. “No. Staying put is a mistake. We’ve held the totem long enough to prove we can, but now it’s time to move. We'll show everyone we can take the fight to the others, too. Plus, while losing the totem would weaken us, we don’t need it to win.”

Oliver raised a hopeful eyebrow. “So we’re finally moving?”

Leonard nodded, glancing back at the griffin. “Yeah. We need to get out there and make a stronger showing. Two teams are already out of the fight, thanks to us, and the remnants of the other two are about to clash as we speak. We can’t sit here while they settle things. Being the last ones standing because we avoided fighting might show some wisdom, but I must take to the field to be acknowledged as a warchief.”

Neer straightened. “Who’s our target?”

“Both of them. If we want to win, we have to take down everyone left. The teams are almost full, with only a couple of losses to each side, and that gives us an opportunity. They’ll take a while to fight it out.”

They took a longer route that Leonard had scouted out while fighting with the rabble and passed by the southern totem, its lion-headed statue still glowing with the boon of courage. A single guard had been left behind in the assumption that no one left would bother with an attack so far from the thick of the fighting. Leonard made quick work of him, deflecting a wild swing from the orc’s axe and then stunning him with a single well-placed punch. Neer threw the unconscious body to the trees, and they claimed the totem’s boon without further delay.

Again, Leonard felt the magic try to overcome his defenses—the courage totem granted immunity to fear, and he felt an aggressive surge of energy just waiting to course through him. It was a dangerous, potent boost that added to the already impressive magic of the griffin’s protection. It was also precisely like an orc warrior to prefer berserk rage to a cool mind. Leonard dispelled it with a huff, and the totem crumbled.

This is why Grakkor didn’t just hand out the leadership to one of the better fighters. To be warchief, you need more than strength and guts.

They pressed onward, heading east, where the sounds of battle grew louder but visibly lesser as a magical mist permeated everything. Leonard slowed down as they approached the last two remaining teams, motioning for silence. From their vantage point above the fog, they saw the last fighters clash.

Hussa’s team spread out on one side, a feral grin never leaving her face as she barked orders at her warriors and handled two enemies on her own. Her team had claimed the strength totem, which showed in how they fought—every strike was filled with raw, brutal force. But the other team, led by an orc Leonard didn’t recognize, was no slouch. They had the resilience totem and the only shaman he had seen in the trial. With his reserves increased by the boon, he intervened every time Hussa’s people got close to winning, forcing them back.

The two teams were at an impasse, Hussa’s archer keeping the shaman pinned while the warriors tried and failed to break through. Neither side could gain the upper hand, and the frustration in the air kept growing.

I didn’t mean to do it this way, but this might be better. Waiting too long is not my style, anyway.

Leonard stepped forward and lifted a hand, imposing his will upon reality. Whatever magic was producing the mist fell apart immediately—drawing the attention of both teams instantly. Hussa’s sharp eyes locked onto him, and her grin widened even further. The other orc leader turned with a snarl, clearly recognizing the threat.

For a moment, everything was still, the air thick with anticipation.

And then, just as Leonard expected, the two orc teams came to a silent agreement. They would deal with him first. The humans were the wild card, and their arrival would only complicate things. Better to eliminate Leonard’s group now and then settle their differences afterward.

Neer’s grip tightened on her cleaver’s handle. “Let me handle Hussa,” she asked intensely.

Leonard paused, looking at her. There was the fierceness he had come to expect. He knew Hussa had been baiting her for days, pretending to be precisely what a lost half-orc would want to see and then pushing her buttons, trying to get under her skin. He also knew Neer well enough to trust her judgment when it came to handling personal battles. He'd give her another chance if she thought she could handle it this time.

He nodded. “She’s yours.”

Neer didn’t need any more encouragement. She broke into a sprint, heading straight for Hussa and jumping off the hill, howling in challenge.

“Let’s finish this,” Leonard muttered, unsheathing his sword. He scanned the remaining orcs, ten in total. They stood between him and the path to victory, each roaring in challenge as they prepared for battle. Only one remained silent. His gnarled staff crackled with magic, eyes glowing faintly under his hood.

He noticed Oliver glance toward the shaman, narrowing his eyes with determination. He even angled toward the magic-user, clearly eager to take him on.

Leonard smirked. Let the boy have his challenge.

He hurled his sword into the sky with a single flick of his wrist. It spun upward, vanishing into the blue hundreds of feet above them.

The orcs blinked in confusion, momentarily thrown off by the strange maneuver. But Leonard was already moving.

He charged forward faster than any of them could react, crashing into the group like a force of nature. His first target, a hulking brute with a battleaxe, swung wide, and Leonard ducked under the arc, his fist driving into the orc’s solar plexus. The blow landed with a sickening crack, a shockwave rippling from the impact. The orc’s eyes bulged as the air left his lungs and he was lifted off the ground, crashing into two of his comrades.

Before the others could react, Leonard’s foot connected with another orc’s ribs, sending him skidding across the dirt, cracking the ground beneath him as he collided with a rock formation. The rest roared, weapons swinging wildly, but Leonard weaved between the attacks casually.

A slash came at him from the side, a gleaming arc of cutting magic trailing behind it. Leonard leaped into the air, flipping over the sword, and twisted mid-flight. The orc beneath him stared in disbelief as Leonard passed him, landing with a thunderous kick to the back of his skull. The orc dropped instantly, unconscious before he even hit the ground.

Another rushed in from the right, swinging a massive hammer carved with glowing runes. Leonard sidestepped at the last second, letting the hammer smash into the earth with a resounding boom, cracks spider-webbing out from the impact. Without missing a beat, he grabbed the orc’s arm and used his own momentum against him, flipping the massive warrior over his shoulder and slamming him into the dirt with enough force to leave an imprint.

The remaining orcs hesitated, doubt creeping into their eyes. Leonard stood tall, unfazed.

“You’re not done yet.”

Two orcs rushed him at once, axes swinging in tandem. Leonard caught a wrist mid-swing, twisting until he got a howl of pain. He spun, using the orc’s body as a shield against the other, forcing his attacker to stumble. With a swift kick to the back of the knee, Leonard sent the first orc crumpling to the ground, his hand still gripping his shattered wrist.

The second orc barely had time to react before Leonard’s fist slammed into his gut, lifting him off the ground with the sheer force of the blow. A ripple of energy cracked the ground as the orc flew backward, crashing into the trees.

The archer in the back released an arrow now that he had a clear shot, aiming for Leonard’s head. Without even turning, Leonard sidestepped, letting it whistle past him. His body blurred as he rushed forward, instantly closing the distance. The archer barely had time to draw another arrow before Leonard’s hand gripped his neck. He slammed the orc into the dirt, leaving him gasping for breath with a ruined throat.

The final two warriors rushed in unison, flanking Leonard from both sides. Leonard ducked low, sweeping the legs out from one while catching the other’s blade with his forearm, ignoring the feeling of enchanted steel on his skin. It couldn’t harm him. He twisted, kicking the first orc into the other, sending both sprawling into a heap.

Leonard took a deep breath, standing amid the wreckage. The orcs lay scattered around him, groaning in pain or unconscious, except for the last two, who tried to untangle themselves.

Just then, his sword finished its descent. Leonard reached out, his hand closing around the hilt with perfect timing, catching the blade just as it hovered an inch from impaling the two scrambling warriors.

“Still got it.”

Chapter 106 - Knuckle Sandwich - Neer 9

A rational person would remember how badly they had lost against Hussa and would avoid fighting her again. Neer knew that had she left the task to Leonard, he'd already be done. He even had the time to put on a little show, going by the roars of approval she heard from the tribune.

Neer prided herself on her ability to assess the battlefield coolly and never give in to emotion. This might have seemed counterintuitive, given that she was currently fighting for her life against her opponent in what should be a doomed duel, but she knew better.

It was true that Hussa had overwhelmed her the last time. Neer was even willing to admit that her opponent had greater strength and experience.

But she hadn't been herself. Not only had the sudden switch up between welcoming "noble savage," as Leonard had described it, and cunning manipulator stunned her, but she also had to think about the damage she’d do to the plan and the camp should things escalate too much.

That wasn't an excuse—she had lost and made a mess—but it was an explanation. Neer spent the last day of her captivity thinking about what she should have done differently, and beyond simply not taking the bait, the answer was only one: win.

To earn Leonard's trust back and to show the orcs that she was a worthy warrior, Neer needed to defeat Hussa in single combat.

Hussa's grin was savage, her eyes gleaming with malicious glee. She stood tall, muscles rippling under her skin, a massive warhammer casually resting on her shoulder as if it weighed nothing. Neer could feel the sheer physical power radiating from her, far beyond anything she could naturally match. But she wasn't here to match Hussa in brute strength. She was here to win.

She dodged to the side with a grunt, avoiding a blow that would have crushed her. The impact was so significant that she was forced to spin back, losing precious contact with the ground.

The earth split and cracked; such was the force that the bear totem conferred to Hussa. Neer barely kept her footing as she landed.

The orc laughed, deep and taunting. "Running away again, half-blood? Just like last time, huh? You going to dance around the field while your master watches?” Her words echoed through the battlefield, enhanced through some skill to be audible even from the bleachers. It would have been enough to send anyone into blind anger.

Neer didn't take the bait. She kept her breathing steady, refusing to let Hussa's words rile her up like before. Instead, she seized the brief moment of stillness to gather her mana, muttering a few words under her breath.

Oh yes, bitch. I’m half-good. That means I can use spells, too.

Hussa frowned as a faint glow surrounded Neer, the air crackling with a subtle energy. "What, resorting to human tricks now?" she sneered, but there was a hint of wariness in her eyes. She hadn't expected Neer to stay calm and certainly not to pull a new ability out.

[Emergence] surged through Neer's body like a river of molten lava, heightening her senses and causing her muscles to vibrate with new energy. She'd practiced it only a few times with Gareth but had no other recourse if she wanted to win. It enhanced her physical attributes and granted her an almost supernatural sense of how her opponent would move—a flicker of insight, a brief premonition before each attack.

It was the result of pouring over the divination division's research to try and get something directly useful out of it. Admittedly, the bulk of the spell's matrix had been worked out by the little Archmage, but Neer could rightly say that without her input, it wouldn't have left the lab for quite a while.

Of course, it also required her entire attention to cast and maintain a calm, collected state of mind. There was a reason she hadn’t even tried to use it last time.

Hussa's grin faltered slightly as she realized this fight wouldn't be as easy as expected. "So, you've grown a spine. Fine, let's see what good it does you."

With a snarl, Hussa charged again, swinging directly for Neer's head. This time, however, she was ready. Neer moved with the grace of a panther, dodging just before the hammer could connect, feeling the wind blow as it whooshed past her. The ground shattered behind her, but Neer was already repositioning, stepping into Hussa's guard and swinging her cleaver toward the orc's ribs.

Hussa blocked it with an armored forearm, the clash of steel on enchanted leather sending a shockwave through both of them. But Neer felt the advantage shifting. [Emergence] also sharpened her senses, allowing her to read Hussa's movements. The next hammer strike came, but Neer slipped under it, slicing a bloody line across Hussa's thigh.

The orc growled, her grin finally slipping. There was no more playful banter now, no more condescending laughter. She buckled down, fighting with deadly intensity.

Neer had known the savage warrior Hussa portrayed herself as was a ruse, but experiencing it firsthand was different. Her brute strength disguised her speed and precision, but every attack was carefully planned and executed flawlessly.

For a few moments, it took all Neer had to stay on her feet. The ground cracked and groaned beneath them as they fought, each swing of Hussa's warhammer sending shockwaves through the battlefield. Neer parried and dodged with increasing speed as she got used to the boost, but she could feel the raw power behind every strike in the creak of her bones. Each one carried enough force to end her if she made a single mistake.

But she wasn't making mistakes this time.

Neer circled, watching for openings. Hussa's blows were heavy, but they were also increasingly predictable. She could now feel the rhythm of the fight, sense where the next attack would land before it even started. When Hussa lunged forward, Neer twisted out of the way, delivering a sharp kick to the back of her knee, forcing her to stumble.

Hussa snarled, swinging in a wide arc. Neer ducked under it, bringing her cleaver up hard on Hussa's hip. The blow cut deeply into the armor, but the resilience totem's protection was still at work. Hussa didn't fall; instead, she roared in fury, spinning around and slamming the side of her hammer into Neer's ribs.

The force of the hit sent her flying, crashing through a tree and skidding across the ground. Pain exploded through her side, but she gritted her teeth, pushing herself back to her feet. The buff spell and the griffin's boon were more than enough to tank a hit like that, and though she was hurt, she was far from done.

Hussa charged again, but this time Neer met her head-on. They clashed in a flurry of blows, steel ringing against steel, each strike more vicious than the last. They tore through the battlefield, leaving destruction in their wake—trees splintered, rocks shattered, and the earth itself seemed to tremble beneath their feet.

Neer could feel the strain in her muscles, the haze of the battle pressing down on her, but she didn't falter. She had trained too much for this, endured endless hours of sparring, and pushed her limits just to be of use to Leonard. She wouldn't let Hussa break her.

And for the first time, Hussa's eyes showed something other than glee or scorn.

Doubt.

Neer pressed the advantage, her cleaver flashing in impossibly tight arcs, forcing Hussa onto the defensive. The orc's swings grew more desperate, her breath coming in labored gasps as she tried to match Neer's pace. But [Emergence] had given Neer more than just speed. She was there before the blow was even fully realized. No matter the feints her opponent tried, nothing could fool her now. She was in the flow state.

Finally, with a sharp feint to the left, Neer broke through Hussa's guard, cutting deep into her side where she had previously broken the armor. Hussa let out a bellow of pain, staggering back, blood pouring from the wound.

Neer had gained the upper hand for the first time since their battle began.

She didn't waste the moment. Her instincts screamed to finish the fight before Hussa had the chance to recover. As her opponent staggered back, Neer caught sight of a faint light under the rent in Hussa's armor—the unmistakable effect of a healing artifact. It was patching up Hussa's wound, slowly but surely.

Neer's eyes narrowed. She couldn't let Hussa recover.

Without hesitation, she did something that took even herself by surprise—she tossed her cleaver to the ground. The heavy weapon landed with a dull thud. Hussa's eyes widened briefly, then a slow, wicked grin spread across her bloodied face.

"Giving up already? Scared of a little blood, are we?" Though her tone was light and mocking, but her grip tightened around her warhammer's haft. "Not so tough when things become real."

Neer didn't answer. Instead, she shifted her stance, her gaze fixed on the faint light in Hussa's armor. With a swift motion, she kicked up a fragment of the shattered battlefield, a jagged piece of stone no bigger than her palm. Her hand moved on its own, guided by [Emergence]. Without a second thought, she hurled it straight at the glowing point.

Hussa, still grinning, barely had time to react as the shard struck true, slamming into the center of her chest. There was a loud crack as the artifact hidden beneath her armor shattered. The glow flickered, then burst outward in an unfocused surge of energy, washing over Hussa's body.

The orc gasped, stumbling back as the healing power unraveled. It mended her flesh, but only in patches, the magic sputtering without focus. Instead of sealing the wound entirely, it dissipated evenly through her entire body, leaving Hussa still bleeding, though less profusely.

Neer didn't waste any more time. She scooped her cleaver off the ground and advanced, ready to put an end to things.

She could see from the dawning horror in her expression that Hussa realized that the wound was still too deep to fight with. She gritted her teeth, blood running down her side, but there was no fear in her eyes—only a grim resolve.

"So, this is how it ends," Hussa muttered, adjusting her grip on her warhammer. "Fine. I'll make my stand here."

Ah, she’s actually going to make me do this. It’d be just like her to poison our first public appearance with the death of a respected warrior.

Despite her frustration, Neer still raised her cleaver to strike. That was when a body flew across the battlefield, crashing into the ground between them with a sickening thud. Neer instinctively turned toward the source of the commotion. Hussa's ally—the shaman—lay in a broken heap, bones visibly shattered, barely conscious.

Neer's gaze shifted to the figure that stepped into the fray.

Clad in shimmering Light-based armor, Oliver strode forward with the calm confidence of a man who had won without resorting to any of his real skills. His radiant armor flickered but held, and he stopped just a few feet from where Hussa stood, bloodied and exhausted.

"Think very carefully about what you do next, Hussa," Oliver said, his voice steady, almost bored. "Do you really want to throw your life away here?"

Neer blinked, surprised. She hadn't expected Oliver to finish his fight so quickly, let alone show up for hers. She hadn't even thought to check the shaman's power, having concentrated entirely on getting her revenge.

Hussa, breathing heavily, looked from Oliver to Neer and then to Leonard, watching them from afar. Her gaze lingered on him for a moment, and something flickered across her face. Her pupils shrank as if she had seen something there that the others could not.

Slowly, her grip on her warhammer loosened. She took a step back, then another, her bloodied body trembling with fatigue.

With a grunt of defeat, Hussa dropped her weapon. The warhammer hit the ground with a heavy thud, echoing through the battlefield.

"I surrender," she muttered, her voice thick with bitterness.

The last trial was over.

Chapter 107 - The Stepchild - Leonard 40

In the end, it took them over three more days to be ready to leave the orc settlement. Nemas had declared him the winner before the entire local population, and the elders had accepted it, so no one would dare deny his claim, but that didn't mean Leonard could just take all the warriors and leave.

Firstly, he had to convene with the elders to take the mantle of rulership and begin his reforms. That meeting had lasted surprisingly little, but just because orcs weren't fond of bureaucracy didn't mean they were any faster than humans when it came to putting things in motion.

Several more meetings followed, some with the local artisans to explain what the markets outside the forest needed and what they could expect to receive. Another one with the most respected warriors—which was the only one Leonard really needed to attend, if he was honest—where they talked about the campaign he was conducting against Haylich's nobles, what the next battles would be like, and what would be required of them should they choose to join.

Luckily, most of the warriors had already been itching to fight, given the transgressions Pollus' army committed during its brief stay in the forest. Promising them they'd get to fight alongside mighty knights and against powerful opponents was enough to sway the majority, even if they were less enthused than he’d usually get by his rhetoric.

Leonard wasn't worried. He had time to convert them.

Lastly, he had to lay out a concrete plan for life after the Darkwood was incorporated into Haylich's liberated territories. As promised, Nemas was granted the title of governor in a very simple ceremony. She would be the highest authority without him around, and most significant matters would go directly to her.

The dryad had been a bit put off at all the duties that came with the title, having expected to be given more free reign, but hadn't gone back on her word. She'd just have to learn how to work within the system to get what she wanted. Fae were good at that.

This last point took the longest. The warriors were ready within a day, and even the elders were fully briefed after he unleashed Neer on them now that she had regained confidence. Those locals whose lives entirely revolved around the community were the ones with the most to lose from integration with an entirely different society and thus required more convincing. While Leonard handled these matters, Amelia's shadows kept him appraised about the enemy movements, and aside from increased skirmishes in the Serpent Sea in preparation for their southern strategy, everything looked like he had expected. He could afford to stay a little longer if it meant assuaging those concerns before they could become problems.

It helps that the warriors left their home safe in the knowledge that they made the right choice. Everyone already knows I'm strong. That was never in question. But now they also know that I care about their families. That's a big morale boost that's very hard to achieve without magical interference.

Those pressing matters seen to, Leonard was finally free to leave with his new shock troops. He led the orcs through the dense Darkwood in a steady march, with Neer and Oliver at his sides in a place of honor. They deserved it after the showing they put in the last trial.

Behind them, a thousand warriors moved with purpose, the rumble of their steps promising great things for their future on the field. The forest parted for them as they had last time, thanks to Nemas acknowledging Leonard's claim over the land.

Her alien magic wove through the air, an unseen hand clearing their path. The way was more straightforward than it should have been: roots bent away, underbrush thinned, and the twisting maze of the Darkwood straightened out before them. They were making much better time than anyone would have expected, allowing Leonard to test his main army's scouting system.

Scrying doesn't work well here—too much fae magic. To get a clear picture, one would need to expend enough mana to power an airship. That's not a good way to spend our new stockpile of mana crystals.

Even with his assurances that nothing would attack them, the orcs moved with great care, scanning the forest for any possible danger. Seeing that they knew better than to lower their guard was good. It was even better that they had organized themselves in divisions of a hundred orcs, each headed by an experienced commander. The less he needed to micromanage them, the better.

By midday, they finally reached the Darkwood’s edges, and before them lay the Stepchild. The sight of it stole many orcs' breath, as Leonard had expected. Most had left the forest to fight the Incursion in the east, but few had ever seen the untamed beauty of the western rivers.

The distributary was vast—it had to be, given that it was the sole above-ground water source for the entire forest. It roared with a furious energy, making it impossible to cross unaided by magic. The currents churned with a strength no human could withstand, and Leonard could feel the presence within it—powerful water elementals that danced beneath the surface, frolicking in the chaos. It split into innumerable rivulets, forcing any advancing army to waste days to circumnavigate it by entering the Darkwood. Even for the Revolutionary army, who had Nemas’ blessing, it would be a tricky maneuver to accomplish, leaving them open to attacks.

Neer, standing beside him, eyed the river warily. "They say even Experts drown trying to cross it."

Leonard nodded. "It'll be fine. We don't need to cross it where it's hardest now that Nemas is on our side. No elemental would dare cross her in her domain.” That wasn’t the whole plan, but he didn’t feel the need to reveal it just yet.

They had barely stepped out from the cover of the forest when the sharp sound of a horn echoed through the air. Leonard's eyes flicked upward. The army’s scouts had evidently spotted them a while ago. The signal was unmistakable. Almost immediately, the sound of marching feet and the clatter of weapons followed.

From the same side of the river, a mass of soldiers appeared, bristling with spears and swords, the red and gold Revolutionary Army's banners flying in the wind. Leading them, at the forefront, was a familiar figure.

Gareth looked genuinely intimidating in his new black armor, bearing a crackling spear of lighting, but as he drew closer, Leonard could see the sudden flash of realization on his old friend's face—a moment of shock, followed by understanding, then a wide grin.

Leonard laughed aloud, striding forward and crossing the distance between them without hesitation. As soon as they were within arm's reach, he pulled Gareth into a bear hug. "At least we know your scouts are doing their job."

Gareth chuckled, his voice muffled against Leonard's shoulder. "A thousand orcs are hard to miss. We expected you a day from now, and certainly not with this many of them."

The Revolutionary soldiers stood in confusion, their weapons still ready, unsure whether this was an enemy force or something else. Their eyes flicked between the towering orc warriors and Leonard, dressed in simple leather armor, a far cry from the regal figure they were used to seeing him as. But despite his unassuming attire, there was no mistaking who he was.

One of the soldiers nudged the others. "It's the Grand Marshal… I'm telling you, it's him."

A ripple of recognition spread through the ranks, and slowly, the tension began to ease. Weapons lowered, and whispers spread through the gathered forces.

Leonard stepped back from Gareth and raised his hand. "Better reassure them before someone gets the idea to try their luck."

With a flick of his wrist, he summoned Dyeus. The sword shimmered into existence, a streak of brilliant golden light bristling with energy. Leonard lifted it high, and it glowed like a beacon. Its radiance washed over the gathered soldiers and orcs alike, and for a moment, everything was still.

The sky itself seemed to respond, the air growing thick with anticipation. Leonard let his aura unfurl, a wave of power rolling over the camp a good two miles away, commanding everyone's attention. The message was clear: Leonard was back.

As the last echoes of his power faded into the distance, a figure materialized from the shadows, as if conjured by Leonard's presence alone. Amelia stepped forward, her dark cloak blending into the shade, her face unreadable as always.

The orcs gaped at the absurdly beautiful woman.

I know she's trying her hardest not to roll her eyes.

"Well," she smoothly commented. "It's about time you showed up."

Leonard gave a slight nod to the closest orc commanders, signaling them to strike camp near the forest's edge. "Spread out along the rivulets," he ordered. "Find us a good path through. No need to rush it, but we'll need to move sooner rather than later. The elementals will be no trouble.”

The orcs grunted their acknowledgment, and within moments, groups began to break off, melting into the dense greenery along the winding waterways of the Stepchild. Despite their size and strength, they moved with surprising grace.

He turned to Oliver next, placing a hand on the young man's shoulder. "You've earned some rest. Go and meet your friends. Boast about your Blessing. You earned it."

Oliver gave an embarrassed, if proud, nod. "Thank you, Sir," he replied before heading toward the camp.

Lastly, Leonard looked to Neer. "Check in with your people. Make sure they closely monitor any movements in the surrounding area. We can't afford any surprises while we set up the crossing."

She dipped her head in acknowledgment, not asking the question he knew she wanted to. "I'll see to it."

Before anyone else could come their way, Leonard and Amelia quietly slipped away, going directly to the command tent at the heart of the camp.

Amelia had made a few changes in his absence, and the previously modest tent now properly reflected his rank. Leonard eyed the fluttering banners and expensive decorations but held in his sigh. After all, he had left his friend with sole command while he went on an adventure.

Once inside, away from the noise and eyes of the troops, Leonard let out a long breath. "That went as well as I could reasonably expect. Some possible troubles in the future, but I should have nipped the worst of it."

Amelia made a noise of assent while she rifled through a nearby chest, pulling out a slender bottle of golden liquid. "Brander sent this as a personal gift to you," she said with a wry smile. "Golden pine wine. Figured we could use something nice."

Leonard raised an eyebrow, amused. "Etinus has good taste."

With a practiced motion, Amelia popped the cork, pouring the shimmering liquid into two well-crafted glasses. They clinked them together lightly before each took a sip. The wine was smooth, with a subtle herbal sweetness that lingered long after the initial taste and a hint of cold mana that reminded Leonard of winters long past.

They sat in comfortable silence for a while, savoring the rare delicacy. Outside, the sounds of the camp—the low murmur of conversation, the clatter of armor being set aside for the night—faded into the background.

"How do you think they'll do?" Amelia finally asked, breaking the silence.

Leonard swirled the wine in his glass thoughtfully. "The orcs?" He leaned back in his chair, a faint smile playing at the edges of his lips. "I like them. They're warriors through and through. As long as there's a fight ahead, they'll stay focused. Pollus will give them plenty to fight for."

Amelia nodded, though her expression remained cautious. "I'm not worried about the battle. It's the time between now and then. Idle soldiers—especially orcs—can be dangerous."

Leonard chuckled softly, shaking his head. "That's why I gave them something to do. They'll keep themselves busy scouting the rivulets, looking for a crossing, and fighting anything that gets in their way. Finding the best route will take them a while, but they're not a group prone to boredom. Until our strategy in the south bears fruit, the minor elementals will be a good distraction. And with Pollus digging trenches around Woolworth, we've got time."

Amelia's hummed, her fingers tapping lightly on the arm of her chair. "Speaking of the south. Garva's ships have been causing trouble by taking some of the Scales in the Serpent Sea. Every day, there's another skirmish, and even if it’s not them, it’s someone else trying to force their way in—privateers and foreign vessels. It's a mess. The trade routes are suffering."

Leonard sighed, running a hand through his hair. "We can't afford to send more people down there. Gerard and the others will have to make do until you can come around and set up the conditions for change."

Amelia tilted her glass, watching the golden liquid catch the light. “I have to say, I’m looking forward to this. It’s not that often that you get to manipulate the future so directly.”

Leonard smiled back. “I have no doubt you’ll be able to handle it. I have placed a few contingencies anyway, in case things spill over, but we should be able to upend the situation in the south and give ourselves an opening to cross the Stepchild all at once.”

Chapter 108 - Ahoy - David Longs 2

"Rough night again?"

David groaned, too tired to respond verbally, but he managed to shake his head. A steaming mug of tea was placed on the table before him, and he reached for its warmth.

"Then is it the schedule? I know they have you diviners working night and day to scour the seas."

After inhaling the steaming herbal infusion, David gathered his strength and replied, "I've just spent a twelve-hour shift exploring every nook and cranny of the southeastern Scales. If you had asked me how many tiny islands dot the Serpent Sea even just a month ago, I'd have barely known there were any, but now I can recognize at least a hundred at first sight."

His commanding officer chuckled, "Yeah, it's not the most exciting thing, I bet, but it saves us so much time. Just the thought of having to sail to every light-forsaken rock in the sea to see if a band of pirates has managed to hide there makes my bones ache."

David gave Captain Charry the gimlet eye, but unfortunately, that only served to make the man laugh harder. "At least I don't have to step foot on the ships. I can't imagine the cold and humidity. Stuck with only smelly men as companions. No, thank you."

For some reason, his light ribbing didn't elicit the usual response. Is he so tired from the patrols? No, he came all the way here just after returning…

Looking at the slightly older man— who would have once been his inferior since it was rumored that he used to be a slave until the Revolution swept through his master's farms—David saw a weird look on his face.

It took him a moment for his sleep-deprived brain to slowly realize what that meant. "No…"

"I'm sorry to say, yes."

"No. No, it can't be," David muttered, shaking his head and desperately trying to ignore the growing grin on Charry's face.

"I would say I empathize with your suffering, but having been the one sent on patrol for the last month while you were sitting here in the toasty warmth, I can't." His lips were stretched in what was now a full-blown shit-eating grin, and David hated him all the more for it.

"But why? I thought we reached a sort of balance with the other factions." The complaint felt hollow. He knew very well that when the administration made a decision, it was final. It just so happened that he was on the bad end of it this time.

"The reward for good work is more work, Diviner Longs. You managed to personally discover fourteen warded hideouts, more than double what the next best of your colleagues was capable of." David really wanted to complain. He would have worked much less had he known it would have led to this! Oh, he had been so glad when the responsibility over the spell research had been lifted from his shoulders. He should have known better.

A tightness in his chest alerted him that he was skirting dangerously close to breaking the terms of his oath, and David sagged—nothing he could do about it.

"Oh, don't be so gloomy. The lads are a fun bunch, and we even get to fight a sea serpent once in a while!"

Yeah, that was precisely why Charry didn’t want to do it.

David supposed he should be grateful that he was given an entire day to prepare for his new deployment, thanks to the latest refitting the Wavebreaker was going through.

Since he had spent the precious time sleeping, however, he was much less inclined to think positively.

Waiting at the southernmost pier of Treon's increasingly busy port, staring up at the monstrosity of enchanted wood and copper, David finally put his dreams of a desk job with little to no responsibility to rest.

I would have gotten bored anyway. This is probably going to suck, but I cannot deny that the idea of going on an adventure appeals to me.

"Oy, is that the lad?" A gruff voice called from the ship, and David was forced to look up, trying to find where it came from, but with the tall gunwale, it was hard to tell.

"That would be him, yes. Lower the gangplank!” Captain Charry's more familiar voice replied, and David was forced to take a step back as his well-honed senses told him that he would get splashed should he remain where he was.

"Ah, that's no fun." The first voice grumbled as the long wooden bridge slammed against the pier, sending a wave of water exactly where he had been standing a second before. David frowned slightly as he stepped over the slick boards, feeling the faint sway of the sea beneath his feet. His legs already rebelled against the unfamiliar sensation, but he pushed the discomfort aside, focusing instead on the ship looming above him. He would have to suffer much worse before this deployment was over.

The Wavebreaker was massive, far larger than the merchant vessels he'd seen docked in Lamprey Port's harbor back when life still made sense. Its hull gleamed with streaks of copper, reinforcing the enchanted wood that gave it both resilience and speed. This was the first of its kind—an indigenous creation of the Revolution, built to rival the finest ships in the fleets of Garva and the Southern Kingdoms. Its broadsides bristled with gun ports, and strange mechanisms lined the deck, innovations that David barely understood but knew were deadly in the hands of the right crew.

He had seen them at work during some of his scryings. He wouldn't forget the sight of a Kraken's body being turned into pulp as the men cheered.

Speaking of the devil…

As soon as he stepped onto the deck, a squat figure strode forward, grumbling under his breath. Being one of the more memorable members, David already knew about him.

Anton, the ship's gun-loving dwarf, looked like he belonged more in a forge than on board a vessel. His thick, gnarled hands rested on his tool belt, which was stuffed with small hammers, wrenches, and the odd vial. His graying beard was tied into neat braids, though David could see bits of soot clinging stubbornly to it.

"You must be the diviner they've saddled us with," Anton grunted, looking David up and down with a critical eye. "Skinny lad, aren't you? You look like you'll blow over with the first good gust."

David smiled awkwardly, not entirely sure how to respond. "I'm David Longs. And, uh, yeah, I'm here to help with the scrying."

Anton snorted. "Well, make sure you don't throw up all over the ship while at it. Bad enough we're all floating miles away good, solid ground without another mage making a mess of things."

Before David could reply, a second figure appeared at the top of the steps leading below deck. Rupert, the ship's second mate, towered over most men, and David wasn't an exception. With his broad shoulders and muscular frame, Rupert looked every bit the enforcer, though his calm expression suggested he was far more level-headed than his imposing appearance let on.

"Ease up, Anton," the man said in a low voice. "We don't want to scare off the kid before he settles in. Again."

Anton grumbled something unintelligible before turning back to the cannons that lined the deck, muttering about "soft mages" and "missing the mountains."

Rupert turned to David, his expression softening. "You'll get used to Anton. He just hates being away from the ground. But he'll follow Captain Charry into the Void if asked, and that's all that matters."

David nodded distractedly while he tried to figure out what "Again" meant. "I'll keep that in mind."

Rupert's eyes flicked over his slim frame and robes, instantly marking him as someone more familiar with libraries than battlefields. David hadn't had the time to think about whether he was dressed appropriately, especially since he knew enough lifestyle magic to be comfortable everywhere. Still, now that he was the subject of so much scrutiny, he was starting to realize he probably should have. "You're with us now, though. We look after our own. Just follow the Captain's orders, and you'll be fine."

Speaking of the Captain, Charry strode across the deck, commanding attention without effort. The former slave turned adjutant turned army captain, turned navy captain was known throughout the city for his daring tactics and his ability to inspire loyalty in even the most hardened of soldiers. Apparently, he had gone so far as to walk into burning buildings to save his men.

David would have dismissed the rumor, but with how protective the people who worked under him were, he was inclined to believe there was something to him. He certainly had come to like him, even if they only ever exchanged a few words when he passed his observations along.

His tanned skin gleamed in the sunlight, and his eyes carried a sharp intelligence that put David immediately at ease. Something about Charry's presence made the chaos of the world seem manageable, even if only for a moment.

"Well, Diviner," the man in question said, coming to a stop before David, "welcome aboard the Wavebreaker. I'm afraid we don't have much time for pleasantries—we've got work ahead of us."

David followed the Captain as they walked across the deck, taking in the ship and its crew. The sailors were a rough bunch, their clothes worn and their faces weathered from years under the sun. Many bore the brands of former slaves, remnants of their past lives aboard merchant vessels. But there was a quiet determination in the way they moved, a sense of purpose that gave them dignity far beyond their rough exterior. These were men and women who had been worked to the bone and, even with the possibility of a quiet farm life at hand, had decided to keep braving the seas to serve the Revolution.

"The crew's a good lot," Charry continued as they descended the narrow stairs into the ship's heart. "Most of them used to work these routes, and they've been at it long enough to know what it takes to keep a ship like this running. They saved me more times than I can count at the beginning. Be sure to heed their words if they tell you something."

David nodded, privately noticing that Charry didn't mind admitting his weaknesses. As they moved deeper into the ship, the air grew cooler, and the noise of the deck faded away, replaced by the creaking of wood and the occasional muffled shout from the sailors above.

Charry stopped in front of a small door and pushed it open. "This'll be your quarters," he said, gesturing inside.

David stepped into the tiny room, barely big enough for a bed and a small desk. It wasn't much, but the fact that he had a room to himself was a luxury he hadn't expected. The walls were bare, and the lone porthole let in just enough light to make the space feel less claustrophobic.

"It's not much," Charry said with a shrug, "but it's yours."

David turned to face him, grateful beyond words that he didn't have to share with the other sailors. Good people they might be, he didn't think he'd survive the smell. "Thank you, Captain. It's more than enough."

Charry gave a short nod before handing David a rolled-up map. "You'll be in charge of scrying the islands ahead, same as you've done before. But there's an added task this time."

David unrolled the map, scanning their route through the Serpent Sea. "What's the new task?"

"We need you to search the deep waters," Charry replied, his voice lowering. "There have been too many incidents. Sea monsters and creatures from the depths have attacked ships more often than we can justify. Your job is to spot them before they spot us and, if possible, find out what has them so riled up. That’s why you were shuffled here in such a hurry.”

David's stomach tightened. Scrying the surface wasn’t easy. Going into the depths wasn’t likely to be any better. Unfortunately, he couldn't say no. "I'll do my best."

Charry clapped him on the shoulder. "That's all I ask. We'll get through this, Diviner. The Revolution will not be denied."

With that, Charry left, leaving David alone in his new quarters. As the ship gently swayed beneath him, he sat at his small desk and spread the map before him, his mind already shifting to the task ahead.

The sea stretched out vast and unknown, but David felt something unexpected stir inside him for the first time in a long while—excitement.

I'm actually going on an adventure.

Chapter 109 - Face Your Fears - David Longs 3

Life aboard the Wavebreaker was different. Not necessarily as uncomfortable as David had imagined, but definitely far removed from anything else he knew.

His room was small, yes, and the food was a far cry from the mess halls at the barracks, but it was warm and filling enough. It helped that David had splurged some of his untouched salary on buying a few spices that reminded him of home. Elderberry, powdered seamoss, and even a tiny pouch of torrentroot were enough to elevate any porridge or fish stew into a meal worth being served at a noble's hall.

The crew was surprisingly polite for such rough sailors. They all greeted him whenever he emerged from his room, they got out of his way first if they met in the ships' crowded corridors and even made sure not to speak too loud in his vicinity after the first mate had told them he needed silence to concentrate.

It helped that he was still a mage, capable of more than just divination—no matter that it was slowly evolving into an entire school of casting, separate from the utility spells he had first learned of it as.

Lighting a fire for the cook, mending and recharging a mana crystal that had gone out faster than the schedule allowed. These were all small things that the crew's water mage, Portia—who David had yet to meet—was too busy to handle, and that allowed him to establish himself as someone useful even beyond extremely esoteric magic.

He wasn't one of them yet, but David thought that part of his job was going better than expected. Now, if only the task he was brought to do was as easy.

After the first day of employing his usual tactics for scrying vast areas—and wasn't it crazy that he now had such fine control of his gift that he could direct when and where it would take his mind's eye—and quickly becoming exhausted as he tried to scout the watery abyss, David had to change tracks.

He sat hunched over the small desk in his cramped cabin, the gentle sway of the Wavebreaker lulling him into a strange rhythm. His hands absently drummed the edge of the desk as he stared at the scribbled-on map. The Serpent Sea was deep, more so than he'd realized before attempting to scry even just a fraction of it, and the idea of scouring its waters for threats felt increasingly impossible.

The first day had been a mess. He'd begun his task confidently, sending his consciousness outward, feeling the familiar tug of the mana currents, and flying through the route. He had tried to stretch his senses as far as possible, scanning the waters ahead of the Wavebreaker, looking for anything out of the ordinary. Even privacy wards couldn't hide from his gaze. How difficult could it be to find a few sea monsters hiding below the surface?

He had approached it like any other task, thinking it no more complicated than scrying a battlefield or scouting the warded pirate strongholds of the Scales. After he was done with the surface scan and was sure no ship was lying in wait for them to pass by, he went to dive in.

The deeper he tried to go, the more he realized that the Serpent Sea did not pose the same challenges as the surface. It was a lot harder. Unfathomably deep. The light dimmed far too quickly the further down his vision reached, until he was groping through darkness, trying to see through inky black depths that resisted his mana at every turn.

It wasn't just the dark, though. That alone could be combated with an increased expenditure. There was something else—something far more insidious. The mana in the deeper parts of the sea felt hostile. It resisted his control, pushing back against his scrying attempts like some unseen force didn't want him there. The feeling was initially subtle, and he spent a good hour wading through the murky water, but as he pushed further, it grew stronger until David's instincts told him he risked doing some serious damage to his third eye.

He had tried for hours that day, but the harder he pushed, the more his vision blurred and his energy drained. By the time the sun had begun to set, David was forced to abandon the effort, his body trembling with exhaustion.

He sighed, resting his head in his hands as the ship groaned and swayed beneath him. Even now, he buzzed with frustration at the memory of his failure. It wasn't that he was a stranger to it. During his apprenticeship with the Blazing Torch, might the Light be kind to his soul, he had to work tirelessly through the night to achieve what many of his peers could with little effort.

But divination magic was his thing. His, in a way no one else could claim about any other discipline. It hurt to admit that he wasn’t making any progress. It hurt even more to have to say it out loud to the crew, but he couldn’t let them go further without knowing that the path wasn’t secured.

When David went to Captain Charry that evening to explain his difficulties, the man listened patiently, nodding as he outlined the problems. But when David finished, hoping for some understanding or suggestion, Charry simply clapped him on the back with a grin.

"Figure it out, Diviner. You're clever enough." With that, the Captain returned to his duties, leaving David standing there with the weight of the impossible task pressing down on his shoulders.

The morning after, David sat in his tiny cabin, staring blankly at the map before him. He had gone over his methods a hundred times, replaying every moment in his head, searching for a way to make it work. But no matter how he looked at it, scrying the Serpent Sea with the usual spells was a fool's errand.

The sea was too big. The depths were too dark. His spells—at least how he used them—weren't enough.

It makes sense since they are designed to work on the surface. Interference is baked in, but they can't withstand too much. Most of the space left in the matrix after the scrying bits is taken by safety features meant to keep the mind's eye from straying too far or separating from the body. Anything I take out to make more space for precision and penetrating power would just make me vulnerable to whatever is putting up a resistance.

"And I have no idea if it's a property of the sea or some kind of monster I have never heard of."

David leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. There was only one possible solution, and it started with acknowledging that he wasn't like any of his colleagues.

He had to own it: he wasn't just a mage trained in divination magic. He was a Seer. That was why the Grand Marshal had spared him during the siege of Lamprey Port and why he'd been drafted into the Revolution's magical division in the first place. He wasn't like the others, those who had learned to imitate his gift through hard study and trial. His talent went deeper.

But it's dangerous. I haven't had any crazy dreams since I got a modicum of control over my gift, but I remember what it was like to see my death every time I closed my eyes. I didn't want to go back to that for a reason.

David hadn't used his true gift in a long time, not since they had asked him to help establish the Divination Division. The Revolution's mages, despite their hard work and incredible skill, had only been able to harness a fraction of what he could do, enough to create a limited, safer version of his magic. It had helped the Revolution immensely, of course, but it was nothing like the real thing. Nothing like what he could see.

Not just the present.

The future.

The very thought made his stomach twist. The last time he fully used his foresight, the visions nearly drove him mad. The constant sight of his own body being crushed, stabbed, disintegrated… No matter what he had done to change the future, he had been incapable of preventing his own death.

What use was foresight that only showed immutable futures? None. It was only a burden.

David had survived only because the Grand Marshal's power was beyond the heavens and the earth. A being so infinitely mighty that even the strings of fate couldn't bind him. But he was well aware that he wouldn't be so lucky again.

Sighing, David ran a hand through his hair. He didn't have a choice, did he? There was no other way. If he couldn't see the threats below the water in the present, then maybe he could glimpse them before they ever arrived.

With a resigned breath, David reached into his satchel and pulled out a small booklet. It was weathered and well-used despite being written not even six months ago, the edges of its pages frayed from frequent reference from countless hands. The title, "A Comprehensive Study of Foresight," was embossed in faded gold on the cover. Archmage Jean Franklin, the mind behind the study, had overseen the divination project almost from the beginning, and it was thanks to her that the Revolution had been able to formalize what little they could of David's gift.

After the new school was developed and copies were made for the students and researchers, Lady Jean gave the original to David. It was a magnificent gift. Should he dare sell it, he could retire and not work a day until the end of his life. But the mere thought of doing that made his skin crawl. It was too private.

And yet, despite being unable to get rid of it, David had never opened it since the end of the experimental phase.

Grinding his teeth, he flipped through the pages, scanning the carefully written notes and diagrams. He had read this book before as it was being written, but this time, it felt different. This time, it was more than a theoretical exercise. He had seen it as an explanation of his gift and treated it as such. Had been content to never think about it again after its secrets were revealed, just enough to grant him control. No more nightmares, save for those he gave himself naturally.

Now, he needed to delve deeper. David had to study the nuances of true foresight to grasp at the edges of the visions that had once come so naturally to him and turn them into a well-honed weapon in his arsenal.

The book's contents were meticulously detailed, filled with Franklin's insights on controlling the flow of future visions. The basics were simple enough: a calm mind, focus, and, most importantly, the ability to filter out the noise of a thousand possible futures to grasp the one most relevant to the moment.

That obstacle stopped the researchers from crafting a spell that could replicate David's ability. Surprisingly, Lady Jean had quickly cracked the code to peer into the future—something to do with removing one's spirit from the flow of time by following the Light—but no one, not even she, had been able to control what they would see. One more ambitious researcher who had ignored her warnings had even gone mad.

David was quite sure his gift would handle that for himself.

With the map of the Wavebreaker's route spread out before him and the booklet in hand, he took a deep breath. He wasn't sure if this would work. But he had no other choice.

Closing his eyes, David let his breathing slow, his awareness sinking deeper into the flow of mana around him. He could feel the pulse of the sea, the life thrumming through the water, the distant, murky depths calling to him.

Ignoring all of that, he activated the experimental spell's matrix and sought his connection to the Light.

This time, he would see.

Chapter 110 - Some things shouldn't be Looked At - Charry 6

“Seems like a calm night. I don’t like calm nights.”

Charry smiled despite himself. Anton’s grumbling had become so familiar these days that not hearing it felt weird. It also helped counterbalance Rupert’s cheery disposition.

Ever since the three of them had decided to ask for redeployment in the nascent Revolutionary Navy, his tall friend had been exuberantly happy. Charry had vaguely known Rupert came from a family of fishermen, but to see him steer a ship was a thing of beauty. That alone wouldn’t have been enough to convince the dwarf to leave firm ground, but he had received a message of some sort from his family under Garva’s mountains, and that had put him in such a morose mood that Charry only needed to prod him a bit to get him to agree.

“We have the kid to keep an eye on things. He might not be capable of constant monitoring, but I’m quite sure we are the safest ship on the sea right now. No one else has a personal Diviner at their beck and call.” He replied, not taking his eyes off the map on which he had scribbled the latest information.

Even if David never managed to go deeper than a hundred feet, just knowing that there weren’t sea mines laying in wait for them was more than enough to pay for the additional mouth on board. Add to that the constant scouting of all the Scales on their path, and it was a no-brainer.

“I have to admit, I was surprised when you volunteered us to be the first ones with a Diviner aboard, given how whiny and spoiled they are known to be and how losing one would be a death sentence on our career, but the kid is better than I expected,” Rupert said from his position at the helm.

“He is. I heard horror stories from the other captains about Diviners needing to be cajoled and begged for more specific information. You’d think they wouldn’t need sucking up to do their jobs, but they are in such request that they have discretionary power over what to prioritize. I couldn’t let the best Diviner in the division pass us by. Especially after I got the go-ahead from the Council.” Charry wasn’t anyone in the grand scheme of things, but he had served well during the initial phase of the conquest. He had shown his ability to adapt to any change in circumstance, which led General Dortmund to personally ask him to switch to the Navy in the first place, but his ace in the sleeve wasn’t any of that.

He had connections all over the Revolution’s apparatus. Not with enough pull to be given a high rank for himself, not unless he wanted to risk scrutiny from Lady Amelia, but once in a while, these connections allowed him to get ahead of the others.

Getting David Longs as his personal Diviner was such a prize that he still wondered how he landed the kid. And yet, Archmage Franklin had acquiesced at his request, giving her stamp of approval with a mysterious smile.

Predictably, the moment he relaxed a bit and started feeling good about himself, the calm was shattered.

A bloodcurdling scream echoed through the ship, rousing every sleeping sailor and sending Charry running back into its bowels. “Stay here and prepare to defend the bridge!” He ordered his two friends, who immediately set to barricading the area.

This wouldn’t be the first night-time assault the Wavebreaker was on the receiving end of. It wouldn’t be the last if Charry had anything to say about it.

Charry sprinted down the narrow corridors, the echoing scream still bouncing off the walls, fueling his urgency. His boots thudded against the deck as the ship roused to life with the frantic shouts of sailors thrown out of their hammocks.

Charry was a veteran of many battles. He had killed men out of mercy to end their pain. He had seen grown knights beg for mercy. Never had he heard anything like this scream. It was raw, tortured, soul-breaking.

The door was already flung open when he finally reached David’s cabin. Two sailors were struggling to hold the thrashing teenager down, vomit and saliva pooling around him as he convulsed uncontrollably.

“What the hell is going on?” Charry barked, cutting through the chaos.

One of the sailors, whose face was bone white and eyes wide with confusion, had the presence of mind to answer. “We don’t know, Captain! We just found him like this! He was screaming, and his eyes rolled back—"

David’s body jerked violently, cutting the words short as the boy let out another scream, his back arching painfully. Charry winced at the sound, his mind racing for answers. The kid wasn’t just panicking. This was something far worse. Something was happening to him.

“Hold him steady,” Charry commanded, stepping closer. He watched as David thrashed again, his fingers scraping the wooden floor in agony. His eyes were unfocused, clouded with something Charry couldn’t quite place. Was he scrying something he shouldn’t have? Had he encountered a new type of warding meant to harm farseers?

Fuck, I knew this was too good. We couldn’t be the only ones to figure out this stuff forever.

“Get Portia—” he started, but before he could finish, the feeble light of the room’s lantern flared violently, blinding everyone. For a moment, it was as if the entire room was bathed in searing, white Light.

Then it was gone.

Charry blinked, his vision still swimming with spots. When his sight cleared, David had stopped moving. The two sailors holding him looked at each other in bewilderment as the boy slowly pushed himself up onto his elbows. His eyes were clearer now, sharp and alert—nothing like the dazed panic from just moments before.

“Captain,” David rasped, his voice hoarse, “we need to get away from here.”

Charry’s confusion deepened. “What are you talking about?”

David sat up fully, wiping the sweat and vomit from his chin with the back of his hand. “There’s a terrible monster chasing us. I’m sure of it. It saw me, with too many eyes and too many mouths and… We need to arm the ship’s cannons and make for the port. I have never seen anything like it, and it’s coming for us.”

Charry stared at the boy, caught between disbelief and concern. David looked fragile, his face pale and drawn, but there was no hesitation in his voice. He was speaking with the authority of someone who knew.

Charry didn’t wait for more explanations. He spun on his heel, barking orders to the sailors who had come armed, ready to fend off an attack. “You heard him! Patrol the deck and arm the cannons. Prepare to turn back. Move now!”

The crew, already tense from the scream, rushed to obey. The two sailors who had been holding David stepped back, uncertain now that the crisis seemed to be over. Charry dismissed them with a wave of his hand, leaving him alone with the boy.

For a long moment, the only sound was the soft creaking as the ship swayed in the water. David sat still on the floor, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he tried to regain control.

Charry watched him carefully. Whatever had just happened wasn’t normal, even for a Diviner. He knew enough about magic to recognize when someone was in over their head, and David looked like he had just glimpsed something far beyond what he was prepared for.

Reaching into his belt, Charry pulled out a flask of watered-down rum and handed it to the boy. “Here. Rinse your mouth.”

David took it without question, his hands trembling slightly as he unscrewed the cap and took a swig. He swished the liquid around, then spat it into a nearby bucket, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His shirt was soaked with sweat and bile, and he pulled it off, tossing it aside with a weak grunt of disgust.

Charry gave him a moment to compose himself, leaning against the doorframe as he waited. The boy had clearly been through a lot, and whatever it was had shaken him to the core. Luckily, he didn’t seem broken. The Light had been too brief to be a Blessing, which was his initial explanation for its appearance, but it had obviously done something to protect the kid.

Something, or more likely someone, had intervened in his favor, chasing out whatever was driving him mad.

There was only one man he knew was capable of such a feat. Charry’s mind rebelled at the explanation since last he knew, the Grand Marshal was supposed to be hundreds of miles away, on the path to Hassel. And yet, he was also certain it had been him.

I have never understood religious fervor, but this might be the closest I ever come to it.

When David finally looked up his eyes were clearer but still haunted. “I’m sorry,” he muttered, his voice raw. “I didn’t mean to lose control like that. It overwhelmed and attacked me in ways I wasn’t prepared for.”

Charry waved the apology away. “Don’t worry about that right now. Just tell me what you saw.”

David hesitated, glancing down at his hands. His fingers were raw and bloody. “I told you I was having trouble going deep underwater enough to secure the route. I’ve been trying to find a good way to do that, and reading Lady Jean’s writings, I think I did.” He hesitated then, clenching his hands to keep them still, “At first, I managed to bypass all the limitations that held me back. I saw everything. But then I got greedy.”

By the way his lips pursed, Charry was sure the kid didn’t want to add anything else, but unfortunately, the situation didn’t allow for any coddling. “What did you see?” He repeated.

David sighed, but nodded, “Beyond the third Scale on our route, where four ships of pirates were hiding behind pretty decent wards, there was a blank zone. I’m not saying that I couldn’t go through it like the deep waters with the other spell. No, I just couldn’t perceive it. This put me on high alert since I knew another island was supposed to be there.”

The kid grabbed Charry’s flask again and swallowed another mouthful. “There was no resistance. Once I overcame the urge to look away, I was in. There was a creature there, larger than any other I had seen before. Monstrous. Magnificent. It saw me. I don’t know how or why, but it looked directly at me with a thousand thousand eyes. And then it caught me.”

David fell silent at that, and Charry couldn’t find it in him to urge him again. He gave the kid a few seconds to gather himself.

“It showed me things I don’t think I’m capable of describing… But more than that, it started rising from the depths. I think I roused its interest. I was sure I was dead, but just as it breached the waters, I felt an incredible warmth come over me. It freed me from its grip and pulled me back in my body, healing me. I think it was the Grand Marshal.”

Charry placed a hand on the kid’s shoulder in support while his mind was going a mile a minute. It was good to have confirmation that he wasn’t just a religious zealot, but he was more worried about the possibility of a monster out of the legends coming their way.

“How quickly do you think it will be here?”

David gulped the last of the rum, wiping his mouth with a hand, “If we’re lucky, an hour. The last thing I saw was it wiping the island with the pirates out of existence.”

Fuck. Ok, yeah, I don’t think we can kill that. We’ll try, of course. The Wavebreaker won’t sink without giving it a black eye. But I need to structure this fight to last as long as possible. If the Grand Marshal was able to save the kid, he might help us out, too.

Standing up from his crouch, Charry steeled his features. He had a ship to Captain.

Chapter 111 - Behold - Charry 7

Charry wasn't an idiot.

He knew perfectly well that if what David had seen was true—and part of him still held some doubt, as he had seen Expert illusion mages capable of concealing entire armies—the only chance the Wavebreaker had to survive was thanks to outside intervention.

He didn’t give in to despair even when the previously tranquil seas began churning and frothing out of nowhere. Tall waves crashed against the ship's bow, harmlessly dispersed by the numerous enchantments that ran its length. But when the stars started vanishing from the southwest, the exact direction the kid had told him the danger would come from, even Charry started to feel some trepidation.

A grim atmosphere settled over the ship. The crew continued their duties, patrolling the dark waters and ensuring they were ready to engage in high-speed maneuvers, too professional to give up, but it was obvious to all that this wouldn’t be a simple fight.

"Against any other ship, hells, against an entire fleet, I would give us decent odds of coming out of it alive," Charry murmured, earning twin snorts from his friends.

"Our luck was bound to run out sooner or later. You can't take a dwarf so far from the shore." Anton commented, sounding much lighter than what could be expected of the usually surly gunman.

Charry, who had come to know him very well, took it as the admission of worry that it was. Anton was just as aware as he was that their survival was out of their hands.

"I wouldn't count us out yet. The Wavebreaker has managed to avoid pursuit by an entire school of sea serpents before. What could a horror from the deep do to us they can't?" Rupert was always optimistic, but he didn't sound like he believed what he was saying.

"Oh, holy Light, protect us from the terrors of the unknown. Bless us with your radiance and drive away all that would harm your children-" Portia, their resident water mage, didn't seem like she'd be of any use. The woman was one of the few remnants of the old navy that had defected once Treon fell to the Revolution, and she had earned a reputation for being surprisingly competent, if a bit too superstitious for his liking. Seeing her reduced to desperately praying didn't help Charry's assessment of their chances.

Still, he didn't let that show on his face. It wouldn't do for the captain to fall apart when the night was still oh so long. He stood at the helm, gripping the ship's railing as he watched the night sky grow impossibly dark. It wasn’t just absence of light but something deeper, more insidious, as if the stars themselves were being smothered by the presence that loomed closer with each passing minute. The horizon had vanished, swallowed by something that pressed down on them, making the air feel thick, almost suffocating.

I wonder if fighting the greater creatures of the Void was like this. I heard people say they were unnerving because of their lack of presence until they were close enough to steal your senses, but I have a hard time picturing that.

The Wavebreaker's magical lights were the only illumination now. It was close.

Charry activated protections, and faint, glowing runes along the sides of the hull flared up, casting a pale bronze hue across the deck. The wards hummed with energy, pushing back the cloying, oppressive aura that had descended upon them like a heavy fog. Charry had never felt any malice so pronounced as that. Having been a ship captain for only a month, he wasn't the most experienced, but he had been through enough storms to say that this was not natural.

"We can't outrun it, can we?" Anton's voice was low, barely audible over the sea’s frothing and the ship's creaking.

Charry didn't answer. His eyes were locked on the horizon, or rather, where the impenetrable black where it should have been, growing larger and more ominous in the distance. He could sense the crew's growing fear, feel it in the way their movements had become more erratic and desperate. The bravado and experience that had once kept them steady were slipping away, drowned by the sheer scale of the terror approaching.

The protective runes flared again, brighter this time, struggling to hold back the tide of malevolence. For a moment, it felt like they might hold. But then, with a final pulse, the lights flickered…and died.

The ship was plunged into near-total darkness. A ripple of panic spread across the deck as sailors cursed and stumbled, their voices rising with fear. Charry's heart sank. He hadn't exactly expected the wards to keep working for the whole assault, but he had hoped they'd last longer—at least until the thing started attacking directly. Without them, they were exposed, vulnerable to the monstrous presence lurking just beyond the edge of their vision.

And then, they saw it.

A vast and grotesque silhouette slowly took shape against the black sky. Even from miles away, its enormity was undeniable. The creature stood taller than the tallest mountain, its form indistinct but massive, looming like a nightmare come to life. Waves emerged from its unseen body, but its approach swallowed any sound. It was as though the sea itself had become mute in its presence.

It was coming.

Several sailors fell to their knees, hands trembling as they clutched the railing, staring in abject terror. Charry felt a chill run down his spine. This was some ancient horror from the depths that should have never been awakened in this era. His mind blamed the kid for a moment, but he shook that off. Sooner or later, another diviner would have run into it. Such a threat would have never remained hidden for much longer.

It was coming for them.

Charry swallowed, his throat dry as he watched the thing advance, growing ever larger. It was still miles away, but close enough that the sheer scale of it was enough to make men despair.

It was coming for him.

All of a sudden, something materialized beside him without making a sound. Charry jerked in surprise, his hand instinctively reaching for his sword, but the moment his eyes fell on the figure, he froze.

It wasn't the Grand Marshal, as he had hoped. But the reinforcements had finally arrived.

"Lady Amelia," he breathed, feeling his knees almost give out in relief. He only kept it together out of sheer stubbornness.

They called her the most beautiful woman in the world—and rightly so. Her presence was ethereal, her features so perfect they seemed unreal, her dark hair cascading down her shoulders like liquid shadows, and her luminous purple eyes seemed to absorb what little light remained.

Despite being still stunned by her beauty, even in such a terrifying situation, it wasn't that that made Charry exhale in relief. It was the fact that the moment she appeared, the suffocating aura surrounding the ship vanished entirely. The pressure bearing down on them for what felt like an eternity was gone as if it had never existed.

Around them, sailors who had been on the verge of panic now stood in stunned silence. Some even cheered once they noticed her arrival, breaking the tense quiet.

"Thank the Light," Charry muttered. "You came to save us."

Amelia's lips curled into a soft and enigmatic smile. "Save you?" she echoed, her voice like the soft rustle of leaves in a calm breeze. "No, Captain. I didn't come to save you."

Charry blinked, his relief faltering. "What do you mean?"

Amelia's eyes twinkled with amusement as she gazed out at the horizon, where the creature's silhouette was moving closer. "I came to witness the spectacle," she said lightly, as if discussing the weather.

Charry's confusion deepened. "What spectacle?"

Before Amelia could answer, the sea began to shake violently beneath them. The ship rocked as waves surged higher, crashing against the hull with increasing force. The water swirled, forming massive whirlpools that twisted and coiled. And then, in the distance, something else began to take shape.

A colossal serpent slowly rose from the depths. Its body was made of water, translucent yet glowing with blue light. It towered over the ship's mast, its body stretching impossibly high in the sky. The sailors, already pushed to the brink by the sight of the monster chasing them, could only stare in stunned disbelief.

"The Deep One," Amelia said softly, "has made the mistake of coming too close to the Slitherer's delta."

Charry's heart pounded in his chest as the water serpent reared its massive head, its eyes glowing with terrible power. The Deep One continued its slow march, seemingly unworried that a new foe had appeared, and yet the entire atmosphere had changed entirely with the Elemental King's arrival.

Before anyone could ask for further explanations, the serpent let out a deafening roar that shook the world.

It reverberated through the Wavebreaker, obliterating its remaining wards. Charry winced at its sheer force, gripping the railing harder to steady himself, but sighed in relief as a bubble of transparent shadows coalesced around them. Below, the sailors clutched their weapons and each other, wide-eyed and awestruck but no longer paralyzed by fear. Lady Amelia's arrival and the elemental's appearance seemed to have buoyed their spirits.

The Slitherer's massive body coiled and undulated, with currents rushing through it wide enough for the Wavebreaker to navigate. It was a spectacle unlike anything he had ever imagined.

In contrast, the Deep One—a shifting, grotesque mass of tentacles, eyes, and gaping maws—seemed to defy the very laws of nature. Its form never remained the same for long, constantly writhing, merging, and splitting, as if reality could barely contain its monstrous presence.

The two beings collided with a force that sent shockwaves through the sea. The Slitherer struck first, its massive head crashing into the swirling mass of tentacles. Water surged in great torrents, flinging up towering walls that shimmered with an eerie glow. The impact was so powerful that even the Wavebreaker, miles away, shuddered beneath the waves. Charry felt his stomach lurch as the ship tilted, but the bubble of shadows surrounding them held firm.

"Isn't it magnificent?" Amelia's voice cut through the chaos, soft yet clear, as though the roar of battle couldn't touch her.

Charry shot her a sideways glance, still gripping the railing. "Magnificent?" He almost laughed, the tension of the moment fraying his nerves. "That thing could swallow us whole without even noticing."

Amelia smiled, her eyes gleaming with amusement. "Oh, don't worry. You're perfectly safe. Just enjoy the show."

Despite her reassurances, Charry couldn't shake the creeping dread at the sight of the Deep One. Now, with the Slitherer's light illuminating the sea, he could see it in full—an ever-shifting nightmare, a horror of countless eyes and gnashing maws. Tentacles stretched out in every direction, some lashing against the water serpent, while others seemed to reach for the very sky, as if trying to tear open the heavens themselves.

The Slitherer responded with raw fury. Its massive tail whipped through the ocean, creating tidal waves that crashed into the abomination with enough force to level a city. The sea was its weapon, bending and twisting at the Elemental King's command. The winds howled around Wavebreaker while the atmospheric pressure increased with every passing moment.

Despite the majestic show, Charry's instincts told him he wasn't seeing the full scope of the battle. What was happening before his eyes was only a fraction of the true fight, and he had no doubt it extended beyond what mortal senses could perceive.

His suspicions gnawed at him until he finally voiced them. "Lady Amelia," he said, glancing her way, "What we're seeing is only part of it, isn't it?"

Amelia's smile widened in approval. "You're perceptive, Captain. Yes, what you see is merely the physical manifestation. The real battle, the one that truly matters, is happening far beyond your understanding. What you witness is just the aftershock of their clash—an echo of the Concepts they wield."

"Concepts?" Charry frowned, trying to grasp the meaning.

"The Ascended don't fight like mortals do," she explained, her tone almost playful. "Their power isn't bound by flesh and blood. They embody forces—Ideas, if you will." She trailed off as if remembering she wasn't talking to a peer.

Charry felt a cold shiver run through him. Her words left him feeling small—insignificant, even. These were forces beyond anything he could comprehend, much less influence. And yet, there was a strange comfort in knowing they were protected by someone as powerful as Lady Amelia.

The battle raged on, the Slitherer's infinite reserves slowly but surely pushing the Deep One back. With each strike, the water serpent drove its foe further away from the ship—and its territory. The abomination didn't go quietly, extracting its pound of flesh more than once, but each blow was met with a surge of oceanic power, and the Slitherer was soon restored.

As if sensing its inevitable defeat, the Deep One let out a sound—a screech so shrill and terrible that it made the entire ship quake. The bubble of shadows surrounding them cracked under its force, thin lines of darkness splintering like fragile glass. Charry staggered, clutching his ears as the sound tore through him, the sheer intensity of it nearly unbearable.

For a moment, he thought the barrier might shatter entirely. But it held, just barely.

And then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the Deep One was gone. Its form dissolved into the darkness as though it had never existed. The sea went quiet, and the air was still.

Charry straightened, breathless, staring at the empty horizon. "It's dead?"

"For now." Lady Amelia replied enigmatically.

Stunned and disbelieving, the sailors began to cheer, their voices rising triumphantly. But Charry remained silent, his gaze still fixed on where the Great Slitherer roared in triumph, wondering what kind of world they truly lived in.

Chapter 112 - Chain of Command - Amelia 10

“Well, that was interesting.”

Amelia let out a soft laugh. Little Jean was just too precious sometimes.

“What?” The girl pouted, crossing her arms and walking over to the office’s window to avoid having to look at her, “It’s not every day that you get to see two Ascended duke it out. It might not have been a duel to the death, but even just a territorial battle like that is enough to give a lot of insights.”

Amelia lifted her hands in mock surrender. “That is perfectly fine by me. No need to get defensive.” She still kept smiling, though, knowing it would drive Jean crazy, even if she couldn’t see it.

“Bah, I won’t be made to contain my enthusiasm. The entire Academy is practically begging me to share my insights! You know, it wouldn’t take long for you to come by and give a couple of lectures. It would do wonders to help the kids.” Jean gesticulated wildly, marching across the office and pointing an accusatory finger.

And here was why Amelia usually kept away from Treon unless she was absolutely needed. While she wouldn’t shirk from her duties, she had to admit a preference for direct involvement. If she so much as showed her face around the city these days, she would end up being followed by a crowd of overly enthusiastic mages pleading for a scrap of forbidden knowledge.

“I believe it’s your role as Councilwoman in charge of purely magical matters to handle the Academy. More so since you were the one who founded it and instilled such a thirst for knowledge in its residents.” She replied, earning a dark look. “Not nearly as easy as you thought it would be, huh?”

Jean groaned, flopping back onto the plush sofa. It was a very shiny purple that Amelia was positive wasn’t natural. It would be just like Jean creating a color-changing spell so that she could decorate her office according to her aesthetic preferences. As far as teenage rebellions went, it was acceptable. “I’m glad they are so enthusiastic; it’s what I always felt was lacking from the traditional Towers, but this is a bit too much. I don’t even have time to conduct my own research! It’s always <look at this, correct that!> Is it so strange that I jumped on the occasion to get some time away from it all to observe a battle between titans?”

Amelia let the teasing smile drop and crossed the space between them, sitting next to Jean’s head. Obediently, she dropped her arm and lifted her neck so that Amelia could cradle it and begin running her fingers through her hair like they did when things got rough during the Incursion.

Amelia’s fingers moved gently through Jean’s soft, silvery-white hair, soothing her further by beginning to hum an old lullaby. The girl closed her eyes, leaning into the comfort, her tension easing with each gentle stroke. For a moment, only this mattered, and the weight of the world was lifted just by that simple, familiar gesture.

“Tell me,” Amelia murmured after she completed the song, her voice barely above a whisper, “what’s truly on your mind?”

Jean sighed, resisting at first, but the combination of Amelia’s warm presence and the rhythm of her fingers was irresistible. “It’s just getting the academy on its feet, and the local mages with their stupid plots to retake control, and things keep piling up,” she began, her voice quieter now, as though admitting the thought was harder than she expected. “I feel like I’m carrying so much and not doing nearly enough. Everyone who needs something goes immediately to me. I tried delegating! I chose a few good mages from the army who were getting on in the years and a few younger ones who were less bloodthirsty, and they have helped, but eventually, I always have to step in. I don’t want to give up. I won’t give up. Leonard entrusted this to me, and I’m honored. But...”

Amelia’s hum continued, gentle and patient. Her fingers didn’t stop, coaxing more from Jean without force.

She continued in a trembling voice. “But sometimes I wonder... when do I get to do what I love? When do I get to focus on my own studies? It’s not that I don’t want to be there for everyone—I do! But there’s always something more I have to take care of. The kids, the Academy, Council politics... it’s overwhelming.”

The confession hung in the air. Amelia didn’t interrupt, knowing very well that Jean didn’t often show this level of vulnerability. Instead, she listened, still cradling Jean’s head while her thumb traced soothing patterns across her temple.

“And I know it’s important,” Jean added after a pause, her voice quieter now, as if trying to reassure herself. “I’m proud of what I’ve built and won’t abandon it. But it feels like there’s no room for me in all of it, only for Archmage Franklin. I don’t want to be just that. I can’t.”

Amelia’s humming trailed off when Jean finally fell silent. She waited a moment before speaking, letting Jean’s words settle.

“You’re perfectly right to feel that way,” Amelia said softly, her voice laced with understanding. “You’ve taken on so much—more than anyone should have to. And I know it’s not just the Academy. It’s the orphanages, your duties to the Council, and the weight of knowing Leonard trusts you with all of it. That’s a heavy burden for anyone, Jean, even someone as capable as you.”

Jean opened her eyes, surprise flickering across her face. “You... you know about the orphanages?”

Amelia smiled, her fingers still moving through Jean’s hair. “Of course I do. You’ve warded them heavily, true, but I don’t need my shadows to know what you’ve been doing. I know you, Jean. You’re the kind of person who would take it upon herself to make sure those children are safe after taking them here, and once you saw what the average conditions were like, you couldn’t leave it alone, even if it means overextending yourself.”

Jean let out a small, awkward chuckle, clearly caught off guard. “I thought I was being clever with all the protections. Didn’t think anyone could see through those.”

Amelia’s smile softened. “I would have known even if Leonard hid them from my sight. I already know who you are. You’re brilliant, Jean, and so very dedicated. But you’re also human, and that means it’s okay to need space to breathe.”

Jean chuckled again, but there was a warmth in it now—a quiet sort of happiness born from the feeling of being understood. She shifted, sitting up slightly and looking at Amelia with gratitude. “I didn’t realize how much I needed to hear that.”

Amelia brushed a stray lock of hair behind Jean’s ear, her expression gentle. “You’ve come so far. You’ve done amazing things, and I’m proud of you for all of it. But don’t be afraid to tell Leonard when you’re carrying too much. He may be great, but he doesn’t always understand what it means to be mortal, no matter how much he tries to convince himself otherwise.”

Jean laughed softly, shaking her head. “You’re right about that. Sometimes, I think he forgets that not all of us have infinite power sources at our fingertips.” Her smile lingered, the weight she had been carrying seeming just a little lighter. After a moment, she leaned back against the sofa, looking at Amelia with renewed curiosity. “Now that you’ve said what you wanted to tell me in the first place... can we finally talk about the fight between the Great Slitherer and the Deep One?”

Amelia laughed, a light, musical sound. “Ah, yes. I was wondering when you’d bring that up again.” She gave Jean a playful nudge. “It was quite the spectacle, wasn’t it?”

Jean’s eyes sparkled with excitement, all traces of her earlier worries momentarily forgotten. “It was amazing! The power they wielded and the way they manipulated the fundamental concepts at the basis of their powers! I’ve been putting together a thesis about Ascended beings and what existing as an immortal being means, thanks to Leonard showing me some things, but this pushed my research ahead by years! I might even manage to finish it before I become old and stooped.”

Amelia rolled her eyes, ruffling Jean’s hair, “I think you have more pressing things to worry about. For example, don’t think I haven’t noticed you play around with those girls!”

Jean’s shriek of indignation was all the reward she needed to justify sending a shadow to track teenage gossip.

“Lady Amelia, welcome back.”

Command suited Gerard. His hair was slightly grayer than it had been before the campaign, but it gave him a dignified look that she was sure was all the rage among the nubile young ladies of Treon.

“General. I stopped by to tell you that the situation in the Scales has been handled. As we expected, drawing out the Deep One so close to the shore caused some damage, but our preparations were sufficient to handle the worst of it.”

Gerard nodded, placing his pen back in the inker and stopping to give her his full attention.

“The Great Slitherer responded to the provocation as we expected, and we managed to complete the crossing of the Stepchild while it was busy. The next offensive is ready to start.” Having to report to a man who was ostensibly her inferior annoyed her slightly, but Amelia had learned a few lessons herself during this campaign. Power and skill weren’t as absolute as she once thought. Sometimes, weaker people were better suited to handle specific operations than stronger ones.

That didn’t mean the chain of command should be upended, but it was enough for her to tolerate having to explain herself to Gerard. He had proven himself loyal and capable, after all, and having him here to handle the southwestern lands meant she could concentrate her efforts north.

“That is good. I admit to some trepidation when you ordered us to send our only Seer into the jaws of such a monster, but it has worked out perfectly. Even from here, we were able to observe some of the battles, and it was a wake-up call. Treon needs to be fortified much better if we want to ever consider it safe.”

Oh, how cute. He thinks he can plan around an Ascended. Well, it’s better than despair and uselessness. If he puts all his efforts into preparing the city for the Elemental King to attack, he might be ready once Garva cleans up the Death Pass and finally brings its armies to bear here.

“That will be an arduous goal to achieve, but I trust you’ll prove your worth once again,” she replied instead of voicing her thoughts. See, Leonard, she could be diplomatic when she wanted.

“That said,” Gerard said in a noticeably less pleasant tone, “I would request that you first run these operations through me. And ideally, that they do not include risking the lives of good men and women without a reason.”

To say that Amelia was shocked would be an understatement. It had been a long, long time since someone aware of her power had talked to her that way. Many had made veiled threats, thinking themselves safe behind the protection of social mores or a noble title, but no one had dared order her so directly.

She barely resisted the impulse to turn the Expert who reached too far into a smear. Despite her best efforts, the room became noticeably darker, and fog misted Gerard’s breath.

To his credit, the man managed to maintain his composure. He remained silent, waiting to hear an answer.

For but a moment, Amelia thought about giving in to her darker instincts before her rationality reasserted itself and her expression lost some of the inhuman frigidity. “I will respect the chain of command as the Grand Marshal has decided it. Everything I do is for the Revolution. Remember that, Gerard Dortmund.” Shadows pooled at her feet, bypassing every ward that had been placed around the room.

“Everything.”

Chapter 113 - Girlhood is Magic - Jean 4

"I will not allow this farce to go on any further! The city has already been reshaped beyond recognition. Any more construction and you'll encroach on the noble district!" A red-faced, portly elder wearing several enchanted rings shouted, banging his fist on Jean’s oak desk hard enough to rattle the room. "The Tower Master might have sold his soul to the devil in exchange for a bit more power, but I'm not nearly as corrupt! You will contain your "Academy" to the designated area and that's the end of it!"

There was a time when Jean would have allowed herself to be intimidated. The chains that used to bind her might not have been physical, but they were heavy nonetheless.

Fear of disappointing her father figure had been enough to get her to bow and scrape before any minor noble that raised their voice.

Luckily, that time had passed, and she now had full discretionary power over how to handle herself.

"You will find, Mr. Winder, that this matter has already been deliberated upon. The construction of a new wing of the Academy for the experimental division was approved by the last Council meeting and has been since signed by the acting governor, General Doomspear. I will certainly keep in mind your opposition, but you should know that the time to challenge the decision has passed." Yes, she wasn't the scaredy cat that hid from confrontation in Mellassoria's Tower, but that didn't mean she should abuse her authority just because a retired mage thought he could intimidate her.

The world was full of elderly mages who thought they knew better than the new generations and stifled growth. This wasn't a new problem.

Unfortunately, her polite answer didn't seem to do much of anything to calm Winder. Indeed, if possible, he reached an even deeper shade of puce. "You do not understand. As residents of the noble districts, we have ancient rights that cannot be infringed upon just because your little Council decides to! There are procedures! The Tower has granted me and many others who have chosen me to represent them the deeds for the closest manses! Even Count Luster-Treon knew better than to challenge us on this!"

I may not be able to keep playing the calm and collected genius much longer. I'm curious what he'll do once he realizes that all the defensive enchantments on his rings are useless here. Oh, he might reach an entirely new coloration. I will have to award him a prize for that.

Jean's polite smile became strained, but she somehow managed to refrain from punting the bastard out of the window. She had taken on the responsibility of administering the Academy out of her own will. It wouldn't do to get the fame of a tyrant before it was even built in its entirety.

She took a steadying breath, fighting to keep her expression calm though her fingers twitched ever so slightly under the table. She had faced a lot worse than an overbearing old mage, but Winder's arrogance was beginning to test the limits of her patience. It pushed wounds that had yet to scar fully.

"Mr. Winder," she said firmly, "you should be aware that the Revolutionary government has dissolved any and all agreements based on social class. What you call the 'noble district' is no longer under the control of any private parties. It is now fully under the purview of the acting governor. Any previous agreements you had are, at this point, null and void."

Winder's fist slammed against the desk once more, the loud crack reverberating in the room as he shot to his feet, towering over Jean while his face twisted in fury. "You foolish child!" he boomed, "You should have never been allowed to become Director of this Academy! Your ignorance of proper authority is an embarrassment to any decent mage!"

Jean didn't even need to respond. The two guards stationed at the door reacted swiftly. Sliding their swords from their sheaths with a menacing hiss as they advanced, their expressions stony. It seemed they had no intention of letting anyone speak to their Director in such a manner.

But before they could intervene, Demetria stepped forward and grabbed the man's attention. Her eyes gleamed with cold disregard, and her voice was frigid. "I would suggest, Mr. Winder, that you reconsider your actions," she said, her tone so calm it was unnerving. "You've just put yourself in direct opposition to a Council member. The Revolution is not kind to those who would abuse their status."

Winder's eyes blazed with anger, and for a moment, Jean could see the struggle in his gaze. It was the look of a man caught between his pride and his rational understanding of his precarious situation. Unfortunately, his anger won out. Too incensed to reason, Winder raised his hand, preparing to cast a punitive spell on the arrogant servant who’d dare gainsay him. His lips began to form the words of an incantation.

Jean acted before he could even finish. With a flick of her fingers, she disrupted his casting, severing his mana flow with a precision that left him stunned. The energy he had accumulated dissipated harmlessly, like steam evaporating into the air.

Winder blinked in confusion, his mouth hanging open in disbelief. "What—"

"You were about to make a grave mistake," Jean said quietly, her gaze cool and unwavering. "I would advise against trying that again."

But Winder was far too angry to heed her warning. "You spoiled, idiotic bitch!" he spat, his voice hoarse with rage. He lifted his hand and channeled mana to his rings, a string of activation words tumbling from his lips in quick succession. He obviously expected the enchanted jewelry to flare to life, to back him with the power he thought was rightfully his.

Nothing happened.

The silence that followed was deafening. Winder's eyes widened as he stared down at his rings, his confusion turning to fear when he realized that they had been rendered completely inert.

Jean remained seated, her fingers still resting calmly on the table. "Your rings won't work here, Mr. Winder," she said, her voice barely above a whisper but with an authority that sent a shiver through the room. “They are little more than children’s toys."

Before Winder could recover, the two guards closed in. They grabbed him by the arms roughly. A thud followed as a guard brought his sword's hilt down. His eyes rolled back, and he collapsed to the floor, unconscious.

Demetria gave a slight nod of approval, her frosty gaze lingering on the crumpled form of the man before she turned to Jean. "Shall we have him sent to the dungeons?"

Jean exhaled slowly, her calm returning. "Yes, please. And send a message to the general. Let him know that one of the former nobles needs a lesson in humility."

As the guards dragged Winder's limp body from the room, Jean allowed herself a brief moment to close her eyes and center herself. She had handled it as well as expected, but there was no denying the sting of frustration still bubbling beneath the surface.

Ever observant of her moods, Demetria placed a hand on Jean's shoulder. "You did well," she said softly. "Don't let him get to you."

Jean gave a small smile, though her eyes remained focused on the space where Winder had stood. "I'm not worried about him. He lost the fight the second he stepped into my territory," she said. “But people like him are everywhere. They never learn."

Demetria's grip tightened slightly. "And you will keep proving them wrong."

Jean sighed. There wasn't much else she could do, and as much as she would have liked to show off for once and teach men like that a lesson, she knew the real world didn't work like that. The hidden nobles would just use it to paint her as unhinged and immature.

"I will."

While most of Jean's day was usually filled with work related to the budding Academy, whether that was helping the new teachers manage the workload and follow their plans or handling the issues that came with demolishing a good chunk of Treon's noble district to expand the auxiliary facilities, it didn't mean that was all she did.

After talking with Amelia, she decided to trust her subordinates more. She was always available if needed, but for the past few days, she had stopped checking over their shoulders. Most were Expert mages, after all. They should know how to teach Apprentices, and any trouble they might have could be handled the following morning.

This all meant that she suddenly had more free time.

Jean was initially very glad and took some time to enjoy her freedom by taking walks around the commercial district and eating out at these new restaurants and cafes that had been popping up lately—apparently on a suggestion from Leonard, who missed the culinary variety of his old world.

It only took two days of playing tourist before she got bored.

The second thing she did to entertain herself was intensify the lessons with Lamberta and Margaret. They usually convened during the weekends, when her days were less full, but the girls hadn't minded adding a few more slots.

Technically, Jean wasn't supposed to accelerate the lessons. Pure casting was a national asset, and the fact that they were sharing it with a foreign country was supposed to be both a secret and leverage.

It was a secret because no one wanted the spies to focus on Brander, where they'd be much more likely to find cracks. It was leverage because its teaching was contingent on the Western state fulfilling its promise of significantly increasing its trade and opening its market with the liberated Haylich.

As far as Jean knew, those two last points were not going according to plan, given the difficulty in securing the Serpent Sea trade route, but after all the fuss with the Deep One, she suspected things would pick up soon.

There is also the fact that I enjoy teasing them. Lamberta’s so spoiled, and Margaret is so sure of herself that I cannot help myself, especially because they think they are sneaky. It might be impolite, and I will always deny it, but acting clueless in front of their frustration is just so much fun.

During one of these lessons, Jean stood before the blackboard, carefully sketching an intricate diagram. Lines of chalk looped and spiraled into patterns that seemed almost alive with complexity. Her two students watched with growing bewilderment. The furrow in their brows deepened as Jean's explanation failed to clarify anything.

"So," Jean began, stepping back from the blackboard to admire her work, "the principles of pure casting are simple enough in their first form. They follow the basic tenets of mana manipulation that we all learned in our first few years of magical training. You take your mana, shape it through a deep understanding of the result you want to achieve, and use it to achieve the desired effect without letting it be tainted by the world, keeping it as close to the ideal as possible. Simple, right?"

Both girls nodded hesitantly, though Margaret's eyes were already beginning to glaze over, and Lamberta's fingers twitched nervously in her lap.

"Good," Jean continued as if she hadn't noticed. "But here's where it gets interesting. Once we move past the initial applications, we enter the realm of causality-based modeling. This is where the real beauty of pure casting comes into play. Axiomatic models form the foundation for high-level magic, allowing your mana to be untainted by the laws of nature, not just the actualization of the element."

She turned back to the board, swiftly drawing a series of symbols that intersected and overlapped in dizzying patterns. The lines blurred and twisted, forming what looked more like a geometric puzzle than a magical diagram. "Now, what you see here is the basis for how non-basic pure casting works. This model represents the interplay between mana and the ambient energies of the world. I call it axiomatic because it adheres to a set of fundamental principles that—"

A groan of confusion interrupted her explanation, and Jean glanced over her shoulder to see both girls staring at the board with wide, confused eyes. Margaret was leaning forward, her lips parted in bewilderment, while Lamberta looked like she was trying to decipher an ancient language.

Already at the breaking point? Oh, this is an excellent chance to have fun. Light forgive me, but these two are too easy to tease.

Chapter 114 - Daily Life of a Young Archmage - Jean 5

"Too much?" Jean asked, suppressing a grin.

Margaret blinked rapidly, her voice thin. "A little."

"I see," Jean said with sympathy, her tone soft as she stepped away from the board. "Maybe I'm going too fast. I've only had to explain the more complex bits to a few people, who were all incredibly talented. Let me try a different approach." She paused, tapping her chin thoughtfully before an innocent smile bloomed on her lips as if what she had said couldn't be taken as a dig. "Let's take Oliver, for example."

At the mention of his name, both Lamberta and Margaret sat up. Jean didn't miss the way their postures stiffened. His mere mention was enough to rattle them. She held back a chuckle, feigning obliviousness.

"Oliver's magic is deeply connected to the Light," Jean explained, her tone casually admiring. "Sir Leonard himself picked him for a reason. That's why he can use pure casting so effortlessly, even when he's just doing something simple like, say, enhancing a blade with holy energy. It's second nature to him. He doesn't even think about it—he just channels the mana through an idealized version of the spell, aided by his profound understanding of his element. It's honestly a bit demotivating how easy he makes it seem."

Margaret's face flushed slightly, and Lamberta crossed her arms, a scowl forming on her lips.

Jean continued, her voice full of innocent enthusiasm. "It's really impressive how talented he is. I mean, to be able to weave Light magic with such precision at his age... he's just so dedicated, isn't he? I can only imagine how much practice he must put in every day. And his focus—oh, it's admirable. He's so in tune with his element."

She emphasized each compliment with just the right amount of awe, watching with amusement as both girls squirmed in their seats. Margaret's face grew redder by the second, and Lamberta's scowl deepened, though she tried to hide her reaction behind a mask of indifference.

"Oh, and have you seen how he moves when he's casting?" Jean added, her expression perfectly innocent. "It's so fluid. There's a grace to it—like he was born to cast magic. I've never seen anyone handle their mana with such confidence. I haven't yet deciphered how much that helps, but after observing him for so long, I'm quite sure it's a big component."

Margaret's hand clenched around her quill, and Lamberta looked moments away from snapping.

Jean bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. "But, of course, it's only natural for someone like Oliver. He's exceptional. Really, the best of his generation, wouldn't you agree?"

Margaret let out a strained laugh, her voice tight. "I suppose... yes."

"And Lamberta?" Jean asked, tilting her head. "What do you think?"

Lamberta gritted her teeth, forcing a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "He's... fine."

"Just fine?" Jean blinked, feigning surprise. "Oh, I thought you admired him more than that. Well, I suppose not everyone has the same tastes."

Lamberta opened her mouth to retort, but Jean cut her off, turning back to the blackboard with a satisfied smile. "Well, in any case, Oliver is a perfect example of how pure casting works when you understand the principles deeply. But if you aren't a natural prodigy or don't get the axiomatic model, I suppose it would be a bit harder to grasp."

She glanced over her shoulder, her tone light and teasing. "But don't worry, you'll get there eventually. Maybe Oliver can help you after he comes back. It might take a while, though."

Both girls stared daggers at her, their frustration palpable, but Jean's placid smile never wavered.

After all, there was nothing wrong with a little innocent fun.

Sometimes, Jean would have loved to be a fly on the wall to listen in on interesting conversations.

She could have technically used divination magic to follow the two girls, but that felt like an overreach. Yes, she enjoyed toying with and teasing them, but that didn't mean she should outright abuse her powers. Certainly not to make their lives miserable.

She was supposed to be the adult in the room, after all.

With her entertainment for the day over, Jean sighed and leaned back in her chair, wondering whether she'd have to keep her next lesson to only theory to maintain her veil of innocence or if she could afford to push the two a little more.

She still needed to teach them. Her lessons were part of a diplomatic effort to pull the Brander Republic closer to them.

They aren't the most important part of the treaty, but they are a symbol of the whole relationship. Lamberta must soon learn something beyond the basics.

Jean didn't doubt that Leonard and Amelia had placed several contingencies should her lessons not produce the desired result. Their relationship with Archmage Etinus was excellent, and the man had gone so far as to describe himself as a personal ally of the Revolution before leaving for the West.

Still, she'd never be able to forgive herself if she messed up because of her little games.

Speaking of games, here comes the queen.

Hobbling steps echoed down the hallway through the open door. Even without her innumerable monitoring spells placed all over the Academy complex, Jean would have recognized the cadence.

It was the only person who knew exactly what kind of wicked witch she was.

"Have you had your fun, then?"

Against any sense of preservation she might have, Jean allowed her annoyed scowl to shine through.

"Oh, don't give me that, girl. Do you think this is the first bit of catfighting among teenagers I have dealt with? Bah, nothing new under the sun." Lia the alchemist was the most enigmatic figure in the War Council. More so even than the Minister of Truth, as she liked to address him privately. Vicar Damien was an intelligent and cunning man who thought outside of the box and always had plans upon plans, but he wasn't the first of his kind she had to deal with. Certainly one of the best and the most successful of the lot if she ignored the Prime Minister, but while he could be dangerous, he also was a true believer.

Anything and everything for the Revolution, to be sure, but while he wouldn't hesitate to incite a furious mob to burn an innocent alive if it meant Leonard would have an easier time conquering them, he would never, ever touch any of the people closest to the Grand Marshal, no matter what they did, unless they acted treasonously.

On the other hand, the old hobgoblin was much more difficult to read. Yes, she was an essential cog in the Revolution's logistics, and yes, without her aid in stabilizing Lamprey Port, things might have been different. But she also never spoke directly of her aims and had an uncanny ability to see through any bullshit.

"They are far too focused on boys. I'm just teasing them." Jean defended herself, not sounding particularly invested. She had already tried to convince Lia that she was genuinely clueless and had been entirely unsuccessful. She wouldn't waste words on it now.

Lia grunted as she settled into the chair across from Jean, her cane resting against the side of the desk. Her sharp, wrinkled eyes gleamed with a mix of amusement and reproach. "Oh, I'm not saying you shouldn't have your fun. A little hazing never hurt anyone, especially not those two. But, dear, if you keep making a hobby out of it, you'll end up like Amelia."

Jean rolled her eyes. "I love Amelia, but one is more than enough."

"Light help us all if she produces spawn," Lia smirked, rasping as she shifted her weight in the chair. "You've got a quick mind. Use it for something better than taunting lovesick girls."

Jean gave a half-hearted shrug, leaning back in her chair and stretching her legs. "I need my distractions, and they like Oliver more than they want to admit. It's harmless."

"For now," Lia said, her smirk fading. "But I didn't hobble all the way over here to lecture you on your extracurricular activities."

Jean raised an eyebrow, curiosity replacing her mild annoyance. "Oh? Then what brings you to my doorstep?"

Lia's eyes darkened, and she glanced around. Jean waved her off. "The room is more secure than the Ministerial Council Chamber in Mellassoria. Go ahead."

"Very well. It's about that noble you had arrested."

"What about him?" Jean asked, suddenly alert. She had a sinking feeling.

"He's gone."

Jean shot out of her chair so fast it nearly toppled over. "Gone? How? Why wasn't I informed the moment it happened?"

Lia gave her a long, deliberate look, her silence more accusatory than any words could have been.

Jean clenched her jaw, biting back the first insult that sprang to mind. She forced herself to take a breath, then slowly sat back down, her mind whirring. "You didn't tell me immediately because this is part of something bigger. You're using him, and you knew that I would have looked for him and probably found him before he did whatever you wanted him to do."

Lia nodded, a faint smile tugging at her lips. "Very good. Yes, your power and efficiency are very useful at times, but there are eyes on you. It would have been too suspicious if you had known about his disappearance and not looked for him."

"Don't patronize me," Jean muttered, crossing her arms. "So, you've let him run free to see where he'll go. To trace his connections?"

"Exactly," Lia said, tapping a finger on the arm of her chair. "We've had eyes on him since the moment he slipped out. He thinks he's clever, but our people are already closing in on his little network."

Jean let out a frustrated huff. "I would've appreciated being in on this sooner. It's my operation, after all."

Lia's eyes gleamed with amusement. "Well, it wasn't exactly your operation once it became a citywide issue. But rejoice, you'll get your hands dirty soon enough. We've finally gathered enough information to start rounding them up. The abscess that has plagued Treon for so long is about to be excised."

Despite her disgust at the metaphor and irritation at being kept out of the loop while being a fully-fledged Council member, Jean couldn't mask the satisfaction curling at the edges of her thoughts. "So you're saying I get to deal the final blow?"

"Exactly," Lia said, her grin widening. "I thought that would cheer you up. Gerard was ready to march out in force, but I think you should be the one to bring the hammer down."

Jean leaned back, a spark of excitement flickering in her chest. "I suppose this means I owe you one. I'll certainly enjoy this. My control over the Tower is complete, and they haven't tried anything to throw me off yet."

Lia's grin turned predatory. "We're moving on to the next stage tomorrow morning. It's time to tighten our grip on Treon and its surroundings. The nobles may think they still hold power since so many of them have only been stripped of their rank and wealth, but they'll see just how deep the Revolution's reach goes once we're done."

Jean couldn't hide her excitement any longer. Her fingers twitched with the anticipation of casting spells for more than just academic purposes. "Well, then. What's the next step?"

"First," Lia said, leaning forward conspiratorially, "we have found the location of their communication orb. It's the last thread connecting them to the old kingdom. Once that's severed, they're isolated. And after that, I'm sure you know what comes next. Just make sure to leave a few intact enough to be interrogated."

Jean's eyes gleamed. "I will endeavor not to break too many."

Chapter 115 - Thriller - Eleanor 5

Eleanor bit her lips, trying very hard to prevent further questions from escaping her as her new boss walked away, looking to the world like a perfectly normal, if quite beautiful, teenage girl.

Lady Jean had proved entirely too accommodating, even going so far as to debrief her and Sigurd on the mission and enchant their equipment far beyond what their funds would allow them to buy. But that didn't mean she'd appreciate having to answer every little question she had.

I need to calm down. I have already spent months plotting against the most powerful of Treon's noble houses. What can be worse about the few remaining stuck-up pricks? Nothing, that's what.

Unfortunately, no matter how much Eleanor tried to convince herself, her gut kept twisting, a surefire sign that something would happen. She didn't know what, but she had experienced it often enough that she no longer doubted her instincts.

"If you keep making that face, she might start thinking you are afraid,” Sigurd muttered, pulling a long silver lock back from where it had artfully fallen on his face.

Eleanor rolled her eyes, "At least I didn't try and fail to seduce her."

The bard squawked, "I didn't try to seduce her! That's a child! A child! I'm old enough to be… Let's just say she's far too young for my tastes."

"Alright, alright, don't get your panties in a twist. She looks like your kid anyway." With that, they stood up and left, too. They had a job to get to, and Eleanor wouldn't let a lack of initial feeling stop her from cultivating a good relationship with another Council member.

They swiftly left the castle, not even needing to discuss what path to take as if by long-practiced habit. The flickering torchlight revealed a hidden passage few knew existed just beyond the tapestry depicting the Treaty of the Scales. It twisted and turned beneath the grand halls of the Revolution's new stronghold, leading them deeper underground until the air grew colder and the castle's sounds faded.

The passage was dank, but it had been recently cleared of debris and traps in the aftermath of their last mission. Lady Neer had ordered a thorough search of the castle after it was revealed that some parts of it were hidden to divination magic, and in her absence, the search had been headed by their new boss. The teenage Archmage might've appeared innocent and polite, but she was a force of nature and had taken the Divination Division's failure as her own. Eleanor couldn't help but admire that, even if she found her general attitude unsettling.

When they finally reached the exit, a heavy door that blended seamlessly into the wall, Eleanor pressed her hand against a hidden panel. A soft click echoed, and the door swung open, revealing the city streets beyond.

The slums. Or what used to be the slums.

Eleanor paused for a moment, scanning the area out of habit. The streets here had once been filled with desperate souls and dirt that clung to everything. They were cleaner now. No children roamed aimlessly; they were all in school or orphanages as part of the Revolution's social reforms. And the adults who used to sit, eyes hollow with despair, waiting for death to claim them, were gone too. Eleanor heard that they had been sent to a rehabilitation facility where they could be helped in the hopes they could regain some semblance of a future.

It was a level of progress Eleanor hadn't thought possible, even long after she realized who she was working for.

"Something on your mind?" Sigurd's voice cut through her thoughts. The bard stood beside her, leaning casually against the doorframe, his lute slung over his back.

"Just appreciating the view," Eleanor replied. "Things have changed. Not long ago, this place was a graveyard for the living."

Sigurd nodded, though his expression was distant. "Having a revolution has its perks, I suppose. It allows for changes that would have never been possible under the old regime. It also requires the stomach for a lot of bloodshed and the risk of it derailing."

"That's the way it's always been. You don't get good things if you aren't willing to shoulder some risk," she replied, matter-of-fact. She gestured with her chin. "Come on. We've got a job to do."

They set off into the narrow, twisting alleyways under the watchful eyes of the remaining locals. The slums, though improved, still held their secrets, and it would take much longer before they could be declared entirely safe. They passed rows of tightly packed houses, their windows boarded up from the world.

It didn't take long to find what they were looking for. They turned into a particularly dingy alleyway, its walls covered in grime. At the far end, a door that looked like it hadn't been used in years was hidden behind a stack of barrels. Eleanor approached it, knocking twice in quick succession.

A panel slid open, revealing a pair of eyes that glinted in the dim light.

"Password?" the guard's gruff voice asked.

"Long shadows fall, but none cast deeper than the sun's," Eleanor said calmly, meeting the guard's gaze without flinching.

The panel slid shut, and after a moment, the door creaked open, allowing them entry.

The room beyond was lit by crystal lamps hanging from the ceiling, casting everything in a warm glow. The space was larger than it appeared from the outside, filled with wooden tables and low, cushioned seats. A few patrons occupied the tables, nursing drinks and murmuring in low voices.

Sigurd scanned the room, his eyebrows raising slightly. "You come here often?"

Eleanor rolled her eyes, her tone dry. "I'm a spy, Sigurd. Of course, I come where secrets are sold."

He chuckled, but before she could say anything more, he tilted his head slightly toward a nearby table, acting oblivious to the attention they had gathered. Good. That was precisely the point of coming here with such a conspicuous person.

They made their way to an empty table and sat down, close enough to the others that their conversation could be overheard. Eleanor leaned back in her chair, speaking loud enough to be heard without it seeming deliberate.

"The little Lady is being insufferable again," she said, her voice light with irritation. "Honestly, I don't know how much longer we can keep up with her demands. She thinks she can run the whole city by herself."

Sigurd grinned, playing along. "Archmage my ass, she always has that 'holier than thou' attitude. And here I thought wizards were supposed to be reclusive."

"She's so much worse than I thought," Eleanor scoffed. "She's controlling. Can't leave anything to anyone else. And her lectures... by the gods, I'd rather be sent to the front lines."

Sigurd snorted, shaking his head. "Still, she's useful. If we didn't have her, we'd be stuck in the mud like everyone else."

They continued their casual banter, the conversation meant to paint a picture of dissatisfied servants. From the corner of her eye, Eleanor noticed one of the patrons at the nearby table glance in their direction more than once. It wasn't long before the man—completely unremarkable in appearance, with features so average they seemed designed to be forgotten—rose from his seat and approached them.

"Mind if I sit?" he asked politely.

Sigurd gestured to the empty chair beside him. "By all means."

The man sat down, glancing between them. "I couldn't help but overhear," he said, his voice carefully neutral. "Sounds like you two know quite a bit about the Archmage."

Eleanor raised an eyebrow, feigning disinterest. "Maybe. Why?"

The man smiled, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Information like that could be valuable. I know people who would pay handsomely for details about what goes on in the castle. Especially anything related to the Archmage."

Sigurd, never one to miss a beat, leaned in slightly, his tone conspiratorial. "Oh, we know plenty. But the question is... what's it worth to you?"

The man's expression didn't falter, but his eyes gleamed with interest. "Why don't we take this somewhere more private? I know a better place to talk."

Eleanor exchanged a glance with Sigurd before nodding. "Lead the way."

The man stood up and gestured for them to follow, weaving his way through the bar with a practiced nonchalance. Eleanor and Sigurd trailed behind him, scanning the room for any signs of trouble. There were none—just the usual hush of whispered conversations and half-empty mugs. These people knew better than to follow another patron and risk their lives.

The man led them deeper into the labyrinthine backstreets of the slums, taking a winding path that seemed designed to disorient. Eleanor remained silent, committing every turn, every alley to memory. On the other hand, Sigurd played the oblivious bard's role perfectly.

"So," he began, his voice light and conversational, "you work for someone important, right? Someone with deep pockets I'm guessing, if you can pay for information about the castle? Or is this more of a freelance operation?"

The man glanced back, his face impassive. "Let's just say my employer values discretion. You'll find out what you need to know soon enough."

Sigurd hummed, pretending to think it over. "I can respect that. But how soon are we talking? I've got a lute lesson later for the son of a high-ranking officer, and the students can be so impatient."

Eleanor fought the urge to roll her eyes as the man skillfully deflected every question Sigurd tossed his way.

After several more turns, they arrived at a small, unremarkable square. In the center of it, partially hidden by a pile of broken crates, was an old sewer grate. The man stopped beside it, crouching down to lift the rusted metal cover with surprising ease. The stench of stagnant air wafted up from the dark hole.

"In here," the man said simply, motioning for them to jump in.

Sigurd raised an eyebrow, looking between the man and the sewer entrance. "You're joking, right? This is starting to feel more like a bad idea. I can't afford to redo my hair later."

The man's expression didn't waver. "It's the fastest way. You said you had information worth a lot, didn't you? We can't risk anyone overhearing."

Eleanor exchanged a glance with Sigurd, her hand deliberately resting on the hilt of the dagger hidden beneath her cloak. This was suspicious, no doubt about it, but if they backed out now, they'd lose the thread. She gave a nod.

Without a word, Sigurd grinned and jumped in, his descent echoing softly as he landed below. Eleanor followed, her landing silent and graceful. The man climbed down after them, pulling the grate back into place overhead, plunging them into semi-darkness.

The sewers of Treon were ancient, built long ago to manage floodwaters from the Great Slitherer during the rainy seasons. They were dry now, and the water channels had been abandoned as the weather had changed in recent years. Eleanor could smell the musty scent of old stone and damp earth, but there was no sign of recent use. The tunnels stretched out in both directions, wide enough for ten people to walk side by side.

Their guide lit a small crystal. He started walking without another word, and they followed, the sound of their boots on the stone floor, the only noise in the oppressive silence.

Sigurd decided to fill the quiet. "You know, I've always wondered… who builds these things? I mean, someone had to plan out this whole underground maze, right? Can you imagine the blueprints? Must've taken years. And what happens if you take a wrong turn? Do you just wander around until you find another exit?"

The man's shoulders stiffened slightly, but he didn't respond. Eleanor stayed quiet, her eyes scanning the walls for any identifying marks. The sewers were vast, but she was confident she could retrace their steps if needed.

They walked for what felt like miles. The light flickered as they passed through larger chambers, the echo of their passage bouncing off the high ceilings.

Finally, the man stopped in front of another ladder leading up to what looked like a trapdoor in the ceiling. He climbed up first, pushing the door open with a low creak. Daylight spilled in, illuminating the tunnel in pale light.

They emerged into the inner courtyard of a villa, its high walls shielding it from view of the surrounding buildings. The space was well-kept, with manicured gardens and a small fountain. But what drew Eleanor's attention were the guards—at least two dozen of them, all heavily armed, standing in a loose formation around the courtyard. Their eyes followed the trio as they climbed out of the sewers.

The man turned to them, his face finally breaking into a grin, though it was far from friendly. "You really should learn how to act better."

Eleanor's lips twitched, hiding a small, satisfied smile.

Chapter 116 - Voluntary Incarceration and Other Hobbies - Sigurd 5

"I have to say, I didn't expect to be treated quite this roughly. You'd think they would understand their position's weakness, but I gave them too much credit." Sigurd muttered, earning an eye-roll.

Eleanor refrained from retorting, for once sparing him the indignity of being the victim of her increasingly sharp tongue.

Deprived of even that amusement, Sigurd shifted his bound limbs, looking for any weakness he could exploit. Unfortunately, for all their arrogance, the enemies knew how to cast an [Incarceration] spell decently.

They probably had a lot of practice. I'm willing to bet that if I were to look in the other cells around here, I'd find the remains of several guests. It's good that I don't intend to stay here long enough to discover how far their hospitality goes.

Indeed, after being thrown into the villa's dark basement, Sigurd immediately started the second part of the plan. It wouldn't set off until they got a visitor, but he had lived long enough to learn patience, even though he usually didn't act like it.

The Infinity Disruptor is a fantastic piece of bardic magic. Whoever came up with it seriously deserves some credit. It's a pity they died in the siege of Lamprey Port. Oh well, I suppose I'll have to take it upon myself to bring its exceptional qualities to light.

Though his arms and legs were bound, Sigurd was never without resources. At his silent command, his long silvery braid unfurled on its own and split into several long appendages, ignoring the cell’s disruption enchantments.

"That looks disgusting. You're like an octopus." Eleanor sneered, though she obligingly sat up to keep watch.

Sigurd smirked at Eleanor's disgust but said nothing. One of his braids slithered across his shoulder, twisting around to reach his face. It paused near the back of his mouth, and he winced slightly as it coiled around one of his teeth.

With a sharp tug, the tooth came free, making a wet, squelching sound that reverberated in the cell. Eleanor shuddered, her lip curling in revulsion.

"Light, Sigurd. You could've warned me," she muttered, glaring at him.

He wiggled the bloodied tooth in front of her with a grin. "Where's the fun in that?"

Eleanor's glare deepened, but Sigurd was already focused on his prize. He held the tooth in his palm and, with a theatrical flourish, sang a lilting, playful tune under his breath. The words flowed smoothly, though they were nonsense: "Twist and twirl, spin and swirl, oh tooth of mine, reveal your root."

The tooth began to glow softly, its edges shimmering with ethereal light. Then, with a faint crack, it split open and expanded, unfolding into an apple-sized, softly glowing cube. The artifact rotated upon itself in strange, incomprehensible patterns, its sides bending and twisting in ways that hurt the mind to follow. Eleanor winced again.

"Could you not make your magical artifacts so nauseating?" she asked, furrowing her brows.

Sigurd chuckled, admiring the cube's strange beauty. "I'm not the one who came up with it. And I wouldn't dare change it too much. That's half the fun."

Satisfied with its activation, he began to hum softly again, weaving a simple melody. While the original enchanter was a talented man, and Sigurd could appreciate his focus on bardic magic, he had minimal musical talent; all the activation melodies were so basic that they almost annoyed him. He had slowly started adding more complex spells, but it’d take time.

Still, the cube responded, pulsing in time with his song. Each pulse sent a faint ripple through the room, unseen but felt in the way the air shifted. With one last lilting note, Sigurd finished, his voice barely a whisper. "Hide and wait for the time to come. Disrupt when the silence hums."

The cube pulsed once more, brighter this time, then faded from sight, disappearing as though it had never been there.

"Done," Sigurd said, leaning back against the cold stone wall of the cell. "Now, we wait."

Hours passed in tense silence. Eleanor remained vigilant, scanning the darkness, while Sigurd lounged as though he were on vacation.

It wasn't until the faint echo of approaching footsteps reached their ears that Sigurd's easy posture shifted. He glanced at his companion, and a shared moment of understanding passed between them. The second half of the game was about to begin.

The cell door creaked open, and two torches flared up, illuminating the room as the man who had led them into this trap stomped in. His expression was as passive and emotionless as it had been when he led them to their cell, but there was a certain smugness in how he held himself. Behind him stood a figure far more significant. A fat, balding noble with rich, finely tailored clothes that strained against his bulging stomach. His fingers glittered with enchanted rings, and a heavy chain of gold rested around his neck. Despite his opulence, it was the sneer on his face that made him most repugnant.

"Well, well, well," the noble said, his voice oozing with condescension. "What do we have here? Two little mice, trapped in my cellar. And to think, that stupid girl thought she could outsmart me!"

Eleanor narrowed her eyes, but she kept her expression impassive. Sigurd, on the other hand, offered the noble a lazy grin.

"You caught us fair and square, Lord..." Sigurd trailed off, feigning ignorance.

"Lord Winder, you idiot!" the noble snapped, his face reddening with irritation. "You think yourselves so clever, running around talking about that brat so carelessly as if we didn’t already know who you are. But in the end, you're just idiots. And now you'll spill everything you know—starting with that insufferable girl you call an Archmage."

Sigurd yawned theatrically and pointedly didn't answer.

Lord Winder's eyes narrowed in contempt. "Just like that stupid little girl to think she's smarter than the rest of us. She has no idea what real power is. But you'll tell me everything she knows. I'll break her hold over Treon before the others even realize I know her weaknesses. That will show the old windbag, Bertier.”

The noble snapped his fingers, and their guide stepped forward, carrying a small chest of tools. Torture instruments, each gleaming wickedly in the torchlight. He began to lay them out methodically on a nearby table, his movements slow and deliberate, as though he were preparing for a casual evening of work.

"Let's start with their nails," Lord Winder said with a malicious grin. "I almost hope you'll keep quiet."

The guide, still expressionless, reached for a pair of sharp, gleaming pincers.

Sigurd clicked his tongue, emitting a sound far louder than it had any right to be in the small, cramped cell. It reverberated unnaturally, and then, as if the very air had been sucked out of the room, an eerie silence descended. The noble and his goon both froze, suddenly aware that something had shifted.

The cube flared back into existence, hovering in the middle of the cell, casting an ethereal glow that bathed the walls in an unsettling light. Lord Winder and the guide gaped at it, eyes wide with shock.

The noble's mouth opened to yell, but no sound came. His lips moved, his face turning an ugly shade of red, but it was all for naught. The would-be torturer followed suit, his hands reaching for a knife, his throat working uselessly as he tried to shout for help. Nothing.

Sigurd watched with idle amusement as the noble began to mouth the words of a spell.

Fireball. How droll. Even if I were stupid enough to let him cast it, does he trust his defensive rings so much after their failure when he got arrested? Pathetic.

But the magic, despite the man's frantic efforts, fizzled in the air, dispersing before it could even form a spark. The silence was impenetrable, the Infinity Disruptor's power twisting any attempt at resistance into nothingness. It was truly a useful gadget, and Sigurd would have accepted the mission just to be able to use it once more.

The goon crossed the distance and tried to slash Sigurd's throat, showing a surprising agility.

Unfortunately for him, the silvery braid came to life once more and whipped at his legs, sending him tumbling down, only to pin the man's limbs to the stone floor before he could get up.

The remaining strands of hair hardened, sharpening into thin, steel-like wires. With a quick flick, the bindings around Sigurd's wrists and ankles were cut, falling to the ground without so much as a thud. He stretched casually, enjoying himself.

Ah, if winning could always be this easy.

"Always so dramatic," Eleanor mouthed, watching as he freed her next.

"I aim to please," Sigurd replied silently, grin widening as he helped her out of her restraints.

With the tables turned, Sigurd hummed lowly, a deep, resonant sound, disrupting the silence spell. The cube responded instantly, its glow intensifying. The magic in the room warped once again. The warded enchantments woven into the cell reactivated and shifted, their control fully in Sigurd's hands. With a second command, the cube pulsed.

Thick, glowing ropes appeared out of thin air, snaking toward the two men. They both struggled, but the bindings were relentless, wrapping tightly around their bodies, pinning their arms to their sides. The noble's face twisted in rage, but still, no sound escaped him. The torturer seemed to resign himself to his fate, though his eyes flickered with a hint of fear as he eyed the retreating locks of hair.

Sigurd squatted, his smile all charm and no warmth. "Now, now, Lord Winder, let's not make this more difficult than it has to be."

He reached into his coat, pulling out a small vial, which he uncorked with a casual flick of his thumb. With the same effortless grace, Sigurd used the tip of his braid—still as sharp as a razor—to slice a shallow cut on the noble's wrist. Winder's eyes widened in horror, but he could do nothing as Sigurd collected a few drops of his blood in the vial, sealing it tightly.

"That's for insurance," he said, slipping the vial into his pocket. "I'm sure you understand."

Without another word, Sigurd and Eleanor slipped out of the cell, leaving their captors bound and helpless until someone decided to take a peek. It wasn't like anyone would be bothered by the lack of sounds since the basement was meant to be used as a torture area.

The area they emerged in was dimly lit, shadows clinging to the corners of the narrow corridors. The pair moved swiftly, their footsteps barely making a sound. Sigurd's gaze flicked to Eleanor as they encountered the first of the guards—a burly man leaning lazily against the wall. Eleanor was already moving before he could even offer to take care of him.

With a blur of motion, she instantly crossed the distance. The man had barely registered her presence before her dagger found its mark, a swift, silent strike that left him slumped against the wall.

Sigurd blinked. “Show-off.”

Eleanor flashed him a quick grin before disappearing into the shadows again, her steps impossibly light. They continued on, encountering a few more guards, but each posed little trouble. Eleanor moved like a ghost, her speed and precision unnerving even to Sigurd, who knew she'd been a simple farm girl less than a year ago.

Finally, they reached the stairway that led to the villa's main floor. The moonlight illuminated the gardens as they emerged into the humid night air. Sigurd glanced up at the dark sky. "We'll need to pick up the pace if we want to join in the fun."

"Things won't start without us. Lady Jean was clear that our priority should be to get the communication orb, preferably intact, first."

Sigurd sighed theatrically but nodded in agreement. "Fine, fine. Let's get to it."

They crouched low, moving through the garden unimpeded until they spotted the ornate windows of what could only be the main study. Sigurd could feel the pulse of powerful wards surrounding the room. The communication orb would be in there, no doubt.

"The protections are strong," Sigurd muttered, glancing at Eleanor. "The cube should be enough, but such a signature usually means more layers."

Eleanor nodded, her eyes scanning the distant guards that patrolled the gardens. "A direct assault is out of the question then, and going through the windows is bound to get too much attention. We might have to get there unconventionally."

"After you," Sigurd said with a playful bow, his grin returning.

Chapter 117 - Teenage Activities - Jean 6

Delegating was important. It was also profoundly annoying.

Jean knew her standards weren't exactly achievable to most others, even to the surprisingly capable agents that Damien was recruiting and training for the most unconventional missions.

That didn't mean she appreciated waiting around, drumming her fingers uselessly while others had all the fun.

"My lady, why don't you have another cup of tea? The kitchens informed me they received a wonderful brew from the latest elven ship. I'm sure that will settle your nerves." Demetria asked, lips pursed even as she refrained from fussing over her.

Jean was momentarily tempted to refuse, if only to share some of her misery, but repressed the instinct. She was slowly coming to learn that she wasn't exactly a wonderful person under all the angst at being trapped in Mellassoria, but at least she had enough control not to take it out on one of the few people she knew loved her. "I'll have a cup, then. Thank you, Demetria." She sighed.

The reserved smile she got back was worth containing herself.

As her servant-turned-secretary left the room, Jean was left alone to contemplate her position. Since she had instructed the two agents to go first and handle the communication orb, she couldn't exactly complain about having to wait around, but something nagged at her.

Yes, it was true that going scorched earth on all confirmed traitors without first isolating them would likely lead to significant intel being destroyed and passed on to the kingdom, but she had different ways of preventing such a thing. Her abilities weren't just related to esoteric magics and flashy war spells. She could cast city-wide wards to enact her will in ways no one else could manage.

And yet, here she was, waiting for two people infinitely less capable than her to do their part.

It's that hag's fault. Why did she have to convince me this was a good chance to show my restraint? Yes, I might have gone a bit overboard with the initial experimentations, and yes, the city had enough of a scare with the battle between the Ascended, but that doesn't mean I should bind my hands during such a critical operation.

The more Jean thought about it, the more annoyed she got at having agreed to stay out of it.

She stood up abruptly, chair scraping against the floor with a sharp sound. Her mind was racing, too fast, too unsettled to remain seated any longer. She began pacing, pushing her hair back from her eyes. The ornate room, filled with shelves of books and old maps pinned to the walls, felt stifling—an echo of the constrictions placed on her.

Waiting wasn't something she was good at anymore. Once a caged bird was let out, they rarely wanted to go back in.

Trying to prevent herself from doing something foolish, her mind latched onto what she needed to do once the signal came in that communications were down. First was the city-wide ward she had set up earlier, a carefully layered spell designed to block unauthorized teleportations. It wasn't foolproof—no spell truly was—but it would buy her time if any Champion-tier mage from the capital suddenly decided to interfere. Even they would struggle to break through the barrier without her noticing.

Secondly, she fortified key locations around the city. The Academy, orphanages, barracks, markets, the port, and, of course, the castle—every important building in Mellassoria was under heightened protection. Wards were laced with deadly countermeasures, and patrols increased without making the populace aware. Though most didn't realize it, the city was a trap.

And then there was the list.

A mental note burned into her mind of places she needed to strike. The homes of specific merchants and noble estates that had been funding secret operations against the Revolution, the adventurer guild, where a few more daring spies were hiding. There were traitors lurking everywhere, even behind respectable facades. They thought they could work against her in the shadows, but the city would finally be rid of the vermin that infested it after tonight. It would be a reckoning.

As she paced, her instincts gnawed at her. Something was missing. Jean frowned, growing more agitated the longer she failed to pinpoint the problem.

Old Lia had managed the operation carefully thus far, keeping everything on the down low. The hobgoblin was precise, methodical, a master of manipulation, and though Jean had been given command over this final stage—due to her overwhelming magical power—she couldn't shake the feeling that she was still in the dark about something. Lia wasn't the sort to betray her, not given the consequences of such an action. But her worry wasn't about possible betrayals. It was about not knowing something crucial.

It didn’t help that Jean knew she didn't have the entire plan, which irritated her more.

She stopped pacing and stood by the window, hands clenched into fists. Her reflection in the glass stared back at her, pale face and eyes narrowed with frustration. There was no reason Lia would hide something vital from her at this point, was there? Jean had the firepower to annihilate any resistance they faced—she was the key to this operation. So why did she feel like a pawn in a game she should be controlling?

The more she thought about it, the more her anger simmered.

Too irritated to stand around uselessly any longer, Jean reached for the window latch and pushed it open. The cool night air swept into the room, a welcome reprieve from the stifling atmosphere inside. She didn't need to wait for the signal. She could feel the magic in the city like threads woven through her fingers. If something was off, she would know.

With a slight flex of her will, her body lifted from the ground, [Flight] wrapping around her like an old, familiar cloak. Without a word, she soared out into the night sky, leaving the room behind.

Just as she disappeared into the darkness, Demetria entered, carrying the promised tea. The older woman sighed when she saw the empty room and set the tray down gently.

"Always restless," she muttered, shaking her head as she cast [Stasis], glad to have learned at least that, glancing out the window where Jean had flown off. "One day, that impatience will be her undoing."

Jean flew through the night sky, cloaked in magic so subtle even the sharpest diviners would miss her passing. Her presence was a ripple in the fabric of reality, masked by a weave of spells—each more intricate than the last—designed to shield her from both sight and wards. The city spread out beneath her like a sleeping beast, its streets quiet but simmering with unspoken tension. Even though the citizens weren’t informed of the operation, they likely realized something was going on because there was almost no one out and about.

She came to a halt above the sprawling manse where her agents were currently working. Below, the stone walls of the estate glistened faintly in the moonlight. Most windows were dark, but the quiet was deceptive. A twitch of her fingers summoned an invisible circle around her hand, and she released it into the air, letting it expand outward. The spell she'd designed—an esoteric twist on standard divination—wouldn't trigger any magical defenses, nor would it alert those inside. She made it specifically to circumvent a scryer’s limitations for moments like this.

Her senses unfurled, expanding into the estate. She felt the walls, floors, and wards layered like a spider's web across specific points of the property. It took a moment before the agents' movements registered—a slight displacement of air, the faint scrape of clothing against the stone. They were surprisingly good, and only her familiarity with their signatures allowed her to eventually find them.

There. The crawlspace just beneath the roof.

Jean's lips twitched in satisfaction as she followed them, creeping toward the room with the heaviest wards. Smart. Damien had chosen them for a reason. They avoided going directly to the study, likely because of the two dozen signatures sitting around a table next to it.

Her eyes narrowed as she focused on those, and the knot of unease that had been building in her chest unraveled. She finally knew what had been nagging her.

These weren't ordinary nobles—nothing like the rabble she had been forced to deal with so far. Their auras were too familiar, and now that she paid more attention, too potent. Expert and even Master mages, a whole dozen of them, seated casually among fellow nobles in the middle of Treon, scheming against the Revolution.

Jean didn't struggle with the realization. She was too angry for that. These were the same people she had taken under her banner, Tower mages she'd trusted after they pledged cooperation with the Revolution.

That's what had been gnawing at her. Once again, she had trusted too quickly. While most of the Tower's mages had fallen in line with the Revolution after Treon had been taken, they had never sworn any of the binding oaths that the Tower Master had to. No loyalty was required of them beyond what they freely offered. She had thought the knowledge she was offering to be enough. It was her mistake—her oversight—that had let this cadre remain free to operate.

And now they sat in the dark, plotting her downfall.

Lia and Damien hadn't seen it coming because it wasn't their responsibility. Jean had been the one to command the Tower's mages, to fold them into her ranks as she had done with so many that they encountered in their march to the city. She should have known better. They were more dangerous than the petty lords and council members she'd been focused on eliminating. The worst part was that she had practically handed them the freedom to act.

She ascended higher into the sky, distancing herself from the gathering below. Her breath came steady, her heartbeat calm despite the turbulent emotions. She was angry, but not rattled. The air thinned as she rose above the clouds, and she reached into her magical reserves, drawing on the latent power she'd been holding back. It was time to prepare.

The spellwork began with a flick of her wrist, mana circles layering on top of each other. Each spell was tightly controlled, masking the destructive force she was summoning. This wouldn't be a fight like any other. These mages may know many of her spells and methods, but didn't know everything.

A mantle of thousands of miniaturized wards settled on her shoulders, capable of resisting everything a mage below Ascended could dream of. The starlight slowly faded from above her as she collected it, caressing it with her hands as she molded it into a focus beyond what any other mortal could hope to create.

Hundreds of thousands of iterations of ordinary defensive enchantments, some aimed only at protecting her while others twisted enough to act as moving artillery, were cast in the span of a few minutes.

As she went through the motions, her mind raced through the plan. The moment the two agents disabled the communication orb, the mages would know. The wards around the estate would flare, alarms triggering, and they would have mere seconds to respond. She would have to act fast, striking hard enough to neutralize them before they could try anything.

I'll also have to contain myself enough to avoid excessive collateral damage and to leave a few intact enough to be questioned. I never thought not killing someone would be an annoyance.

She glanced down at the manse, the sight below far more tempting than before.

Her mistake was significant, even though she'd have words with everyone involved in the planning stages that thought to keep her in the dark, but she had one chance to make things right.

Jean closed her eyes, letting the spells settle around her, the web of magic growing tighter, more deadly.

She was ready.

Chapter 118 - Run Baby Run - Eleanor 6

Though Eleanor was often caught up in schemes and plots as of late, she hadn't forgotten her origins. Her instincts as a maid were screaming to her that she shouldn't leave the dusty crawl space as it was.

Fortunately, she was used to ignoring them by now with all the skulking she did, so she only had to clench her jaw to keep lightly stepping forward.

"Would it kill you to slow down? Not everyone can sneak around without disturbing any dust." Sigurd hissed, thankfully low enough that no one would overhear.

"We already had to change route three times. If we take more time, they might think we have failed." She murmured without turning, crouching low under a wooden beam.

Every creak of the planks under her feet felt magnified in her mind, each shift of her weight a potential catastrophe. Beside her, Sigurd followed her steps deliberately, his tall frame ill-suited to the confined space. Yet, despite his size, he moved with surprising quiet, though every now and then she could hear the faint rasp of his breath as they navigated the tight confines.

Eleanor cursed silently to herself. Could they use the cube, this would be a cakewalk, but it was too risky now that they knew several powerful mages were meeting near the study. If they caused even the slightest disturbance in the mana around them, they'd be found out instantly. Instead, they had to rely on old-fashioned stealth and hope the talking would cover their faint movements.

The mission didn't allow for any leeway. They had to be perfect.

The crawlspace stretched until just above their target, but the room next to it—the one below them now and that they had to go through—was their greatest danger. Her heart raced as she inched forward, silently praying nothing would go wrong. More than a dozen noble mages were gathered below, more than enough to deal with the two of them—cube or no cube.

A voice drifted up through the cracks in the floorboards, deep and gruff, sending a shiver down her spine. "The time to act is now. The revolutionary government's grip on Treon is still weak. With the Mistress of Shadows gone and the Hero off on some fool's errand, what better chance could we hope for?"

Sigurd tensed beside her, and Eleanor shot him a glance and received the slightest nod. They stopped.

Only when the next speaker began did she shift forward, matching her movements to the rhythm of the conversation. Every inch was agony, her muscles screaming for release, but she dared not make a sound. Below them, the meeting continued, undisturbed.

"There's still too much we don't know," a more wizened voice argued, sharp with reproach. "The young Archmage is the one we must fear, not the whore. She has casually demonstrated mastery I've rarely seen before. I'd go so far as to put her on par with the Grandmasters of the Capital. Rushing into an assault on the castle now would be suicide. We have successfully infiltrated the academy—it's only a matter of time before the seeds we have planted bear fruit, and once we receive the help we requested, we’ll be able to overwhelm her before she can do too much damage.”

Eleanor ground her teeth together, forcing herself not to react. It was obvious now that these weren't just a group of bellicose nobles but, in fact, a cadre of loyalist mages that had successfully hidden and spread their rot everywhere they could reach. They had taken the goodwill offered to them as a chance to undermine the Revolution from within.

Sigurd's hand brushed her arm gently, bringing her back to the present. They couldn't afford to lose focus now. If they successfully completed the mission, they'd destroy any hope these mages had of getting reinforcements or even coordinating with the outside. Then, the hunt would be on.

The conversation below shifted again, drawing her attention back to the voices. "We have other options," one of the mages said, his voice lower but full of menace. "We could send a message. Strike a lesser target first. Something to rattle the Archmage. Force her to react. She might have the advantage one-on-one, but even she cannot be everywhere, and the army's mages that didn't leave with the Hero are all too busy handling the mess in the Scales."

Sweat beaded at her brow as they reached the final few feet of the crawlspace, positioning themselves just above the warded room containing the communication orb. She risked a glance at Sigurd. His expression was grim, his hand already hovering near the dagger's hilt strapped to his leg. Removing the wooden planks would be the next step.

Behind, the older mage spoke again, and Eleanor listened despite knowing she couldn't afford to be distracted now. "The Archmage is young, yes, but do not underestimate her. I have personally witnessed the ease with which she grasps new magic. I only had to show her the local version of the dredging spell for her to grasp the entirety of our spellcrafting's unique flavor. She possesses a sharp mind. It's a pity she's so dedicated to the cause. It might be better to remove her from the board subtly." A hum of agreement followed. These men saw nothing wrong in poisoning the brightest mind Haylich produced in the last century. They wanted their privileges back, and nothing would make them change their mind.

Eleanor exhaled slowly. The moment they disabled the communication orb, the mages would know. And she wasn't sure if she and Sigurd would make it out alive once that happened.

"We're outnumbered ten to one," Sigurd mouthed so quietly she barely heard him. "We disable the orb and get out. Fast."

He took out the dagger and flipped it so it'd face down. With a slow, deliberate motion, he slipped the blade beneath the edge of the floorboard. Eleanor watched mutely, holding her breath as he eased the plank up with the utmost care. A single creak would be the end of them.

The board lifted without protest, revealing the study below—empty, just as their initial scouting had suggested. The room was lit only by the moon, with shadows pooling around the ornate furniture and towering bookshelves. Eleanor dropped down without a sound. Sigurd followed her, landing beside her like a predator stalking its prey.

They had no time to waste.

She looked around, taking in every detail, every open book, every ledger that promised to hold so many secrets. She forced herself to ignore them all and look for the target for which they were risking their lives.

"There," Sigurd whispered, nodding toward a large portrait hanging on the far wall. A young King Vasily looked down imperiously at them. It was a vain piece of art, made with paint derived from crushed gems and gold—ostentatious even by royal standards, but that wasn't what mattered. Behind it lay the real prize.

Eleanor approached the painting, brushing her fingers along the edge of the frame. Her senses as a maid quickly identified where there was less dust, leading her to the mechanism that kept it stuck to the wall. With a subtle twist of her wrist, the portrait swung open like a door, revealing a small, magically sealed safe embedded in the stone. Numerous wards shimmered around it, warning off anyone who might try to tamper with it.

I doubt even a Master would get through these without being noticed. Light, even Lady Jean, might have trouble doing it so subtly. It's a good thing we have the cube.

Sigurd stepped forward, a low hum rising in his throat. The sound was soft, barely a whisper, but it carried weight, a resonance that seemed to shake the air. The cube appeared again at the call, floating soundlessly in response to his song. It hovered there for a moment, then drifted toward the safe as Sigurd's melody shifted into a new, more intricate rhythm.

The cube pulsed with power, its edges shimmering as it interacted with the wards around the safe. Eleanor held her breath as she watched it work, the wards flickering faintly, then dissipating one by one, like candle flames snuffed out in the wind. The safe's defenses crumbled under the subtle pressure of Sigurd's song, and the last of the magic faded away.

Behind them, Eleanor's sharp ears caught the sound of chairs scraping on the floor in the meeting room. The mages were stirring. They had felt the mana fluctuations—Sigurd's cube was subtle but not undetectable to seasoned mages, and while one ward might have been ignored, removing all of them was too much to dismiss. Time was running out.

"We need to move," Eleanor whispered urgently.

Sigurd nodded, his song continuing in a low, focused hum as he guided the cube toward the last lock. The final barrier melted away, and with a soft click, the safe popped open. Eleanor wasted no time, reaching inside and pulling out the orb—a golden, shimmering sphere that seemed to pulse with life in her hands.

The mission was almost complete.

Sigurd's song shifted once more, and the cube moved to hover above the orb. It pulsed faintly, its magic working to disable the orb's power, ensuring that no countermeasure would be triggered as they took it and that it couldn't be tracked. Within moments, the orb's glow dimmed, and the dangerous magic within was neutralized.

But just as it faded to black, an explosion shattered the tense silence. The door to the study blew off its hinges, crashing against the wall next to Eleanor with a deafening thud. Furious mages stormed in.

The eldest among them, a man with sharp, calculating eyes, stepped forward, gaze locking onto Eleanor and Sigurd. "Thieves," he spat, his voice dripping with contempt. "I should have known. Lord Winder's incompetence knows no bounds."

Eleanor's heart pounded in her chest. There was no time to think, no time to plan. The mages were already drawing power, preparing to strike.

"Sigurd—"

But before she could finish, Sigurd grabbed the hand that wasn’t holding the orb. Without a word, he leaped toward the window, pulling her with him. The glass shattered as they crashed through it, the cold night air rushing past them as they fell. Eleanor's heart lurched, but Sigurd was already singing again, his voice rising in a powerful, commanding note.

The cube followed them, and in an instant, they were surrounded by a cocoon of protective magic, slowing their descent and momentarily shielding them from the storm of spells that erupted from the mages behind them.

Touching down, Eleanor scrambled toward the exit, but two mages appeared there before she could take the first step. On the other side, on top of the passage that led to the sewers, she found three more, and behind them, she felt the elder and the larger group float down the window.

"That was unnecessarily dramatic. Now hand over the orb, and I won't have you skinned alive." The old man commanded, and there was no doubt in her mind that he'd do just that.

That was when five spears of crackling lighting crashed next to them.

The garden erupted in chaos. Electricity slammed into the earth with a thunderous roar, sending fountains of dirt and stone flying into the air. The shockwave rippled through the mages, scattering them like leaves caught in a storm. Eleanor's eyes widened as she saw the path clear before them.

"Run!" Sigurd barked, pulling her forward.

They bolted through the opening, their feet pounding against the shattered earth, racing toward the safety of the outer wall. Behind them, the garden was ablaze with energy, and the mages scrambled to recover, but the raw, untamed power crashing down from the skies disrupted any spell from reaching them.

Eleanor risked a glance over her shoulder as they ran, her breath catching in her throat at the sight.

Descending from the sky, bathed in a halo of crackling electricity, was Lady Jean. Her face was set in a cold, determined expression, her arms outstretched like an avenging angel of judgment. Above her, a hundred more spears of lightning hovered, each vibrating with deadly potential.

For a moment, time seemed to slow. Jean's eyes locked onto the remaining mages, her intent unmistakable. She was here to end this.

Chapter 119 - Unequal Battle - Jean 7

More lightning spears rained down from the sky in blinding arcs, briefly illuminating the night. The scattered mages barely had time to react before the garden was again engulfed in a maelstrom of destruction. Trees were incinerated, stone statues shattered, and the very ground trembled under the onslaught.

The elder mage screamed out orders, though his voice was drowned out by the relentless crackle of lightning and the boom of thunder that followed. He tried to summon a copper barrier to protect his allies, but Jean's assault was too fast; he only managed to deflect the closest bolts.

She spared just a glance for the two agents to make sure they had truly left the area before she closed the gap in the formation, caging in the traitors. Screams erupted as more power was poured into the crackling formation until she finally let it dissipate.

Her cloak billowed as she surveyed the scene below. A few of the mages lay motionless, their charred remains a macabre warning to all others not to chase after the two spies, but most of the cadre had survived. The reason was clear—enchanted robes glimmered faintly with protective runes, and rings and amulets hummed with defensive wards. They had come prepared to face opposition in case they were discovered, though perhaps not prepared enough.

The survivors regrouped quickly, forming a tight circle with their leader at the center. The old man, who sported a long white beard and ghostly complexion, barked orders as his comrades raised their hands, and began gathering mana. A deadly counterattack was coming.

Bolts of dark energy and twisting torrents of fire shot toward Jean, aiming to kill her. The sheer number of attacks would have been overwhelming for any lesser mage. But for Jean, it was barely a nuisance. The spells fizzled and dissipated before they could even reach her, crumbling into harmless sparks and wisps of smoke as they collided with the countless wards she had woven around herself.

Jean barely moved, allowing the onslaught as she considered her options. She could kill them all immediately, which would give her enough time to pop in on the other fights, but that would leave them without a direct source of information. No, she needed to capture at least the old man—despite the tight feeling in her throat at the thought of his betrayal.

Gasper Bertier was his name, and he had presented himself as a curt but well-mannered elder mostly focused on obscure pieces of magic. They didn't necessarily have a good relationship—Jean was far too cautious to allow any to form after escaping her mentor's clutches. Still, she could admit she had allowed herself to be lulled into a sense of false security when no one protested her leadership.

None of these men had lied to her. She would have found out immediately. And yet, by focusing any interaction on magical research, they had managed to slip through her defenses.

She watched with cool detachment as the mages grew more desperate, unleashing wave after wave of magic at her—ice, fire, even going so far as to call upon the Light, though that broke just as quickly in their unworthy hands—all vanishing the moment they neared her. Her wards were layered so thickly that their attacks might as well have been gusts of wind against a fortress wall.

"Keep firing! We need more time! Keep her pinned!" Bertier shouted in a strained voice. He then turned to two of his remaining comrades, who had been preparing something far more dangerous in the center of their formation.

Jean's lips curled into a faint smile, her curiosity piqued as she allowed them to craft what looked like a complicated piece of magic. Part of her wanted to see what they were planning, what desperate measure they believed could turn the tide. After all, a Master mage like Bertier was rare; if nothing else, he could be a lesson in the futility of fighting the Revolution.

She focused on keeping the attacking mages pinned down, striking back just enough to keep them scrambling. Lightning speared down from above, quick, precise, and relentless. Every time one of them moved too far or tried to gather more mana than they could in an instant, another bolt would find them, taking their limbs, leaving them no choice but to pull back and rejoin the low-level barrage. One by one, they were whittled down, their shields failing under the pressure.

But Jean held back from delivering the killing blow.

Hidden behind them, the old mage and his two companions finished their preparations. The air around them shimmered with an ancient, unfamiliar magic, something older and far more rigid than anything Jean had encountered in Treon. It reminded her of something she had observed once during open court, when a crazed servant attacked a diplomat.

Her eyes narrowed as she felt the elegant, delicate shift in the flow of mana—true Elven magic, nothing like what the few traders that ventured this far south knew. A spell of the fourth tier, from a school unknown to most human mages, who much preferred the quicker casting of modern schools.

The old man roared a word in Elvish, and the air trembled with power. Grabbing hold of the spell from his two companions, he completed its molding and unleashed it, and a wave of shimmering energy surged toward Jean.

Time seemed to slow as the magic took form, and Jean's senses sharpened. Despite her unfamiliarity with this specific school, it didn't take long before she gleaned its purpose, mostly thanks to observing it as it was being formed. Its intricacies unraveled before her eyes— it was a spell designed to turn the target's own mana against them, bypassing wards, defenses, everything. It was a masterwork of Elven craft, dangerous and elegant in its simplicity that she never would have thought she'd find here.

Jean's smile deepened. Against every lesson she taught her pupils, she allowed the spell to reach her, standing still as the magic surged through her wards.

Nothing happened.

The old mage's eyes bugged out in shock, his mouth agape. His spell hadn't been countered like the others before it. It had failed completely, reaching her and changing nothing. He had likely cast one of the most dangerous spells in his repertoire, and it hadn't even scratched her.

Jean laughed softly at the sight. "I must admit I didn't expect to see elven magic today. I see you have kept a few tricks hidden away." She raised her hand, and mana coalesced at her fingertips. "But it's not nearly enough. For you to think that anything—anything at all, could overwhelm my control… I'm insulted."

Seeing their leader's failure, the other mages tried to take advantage of what they thought was a lull, hurling more spells at her. But, just as before, their magic unraveled before it even came close. Their attacks were useless, mere annoyances compared to the spell she had just overwhelmed.

Jean gave Bertier one last look, watching as realization dawned on his face. She savored it more than she'd like to admit.

"I suppose I've let this go on long enough," she said softly. With a flick of her wrist, she finally answered the insult and a series of fireballs materialized, glowing with an intense, almost blinding heat. She let them hang there momentarily, the air around them sizzling and distorting from the sheer power they radiated.

The old mage's eyes went wide with fear. "Wait—!"

Jean released the fireballs.

They struck the ground with a deafening roar, and the garden was instantly consumed in a fiery inferno. The heat was so intense that there was no explosion. The earth began to bubble and melt, the ground turning to molten rock as the original concept of fire spread, reducing everything in its path to ash. The remaining mages barely had time to scream before they were incinerated, their bodies vaporized in an instant.

When the flames finally died down, the garden was gone, replaced by a smoldering crater. Jean floated above the devastation, her expression serene, as if nothing unusual had happened.

Only the old mage remained, sweating and trembling at the effort required to survive the deadly barrage. Jane overwhelmed his barrier with a simple kinetic spell and bound him in chains of Cold Iron, not wanting to allow him more chances. The soldiers waiting outside the wards she had cast around the garden to protect the city would take care of him.

With a final glance at the destruction she had wrought, she turned and flew off, heading toward the other skirmishes still raging in the city. There was more work to be done.

Now that her senses weren’t so taken with her mission, Jean realized that Treon was alive with the sound of several battles, cries of soldiers clashing echoing up from multiple directions as she flew past the besieged mansions and smoke-filled streets of the city. Below, revolutionary soldiers surged through the streets with their uniforms stained with sweat and blood, pushing back the remaining defenders.

I have to be honest. I thought there'd be fewer of them. I knew about the nobles, of course, and most of their remaining households were expected, but this many commoners… They probably infiltrated the city in the past months and waited for the signal to fight. I hate to admit it, but they almost got us. A couple more months, and they would have been too entrenched to remove in one operation.

She glanced down and spotted one such group—revolutionary soldiers gathered in formation outside the hospital. They looked up as she flew over, some raising their fists in cheers. Jean gave them a casual wave, her lips curving into a faint smile. It was strange, the sense of pride that stirred in her at the sight of them pushing forward.

As she approached the barracks, the fighting became clearer. Shouts, arrows, the clanging of steel, and bursts of magic filled the air. Jean narrowed her eyes as she took in the scene. Men in the uniforms of the revolutionary army were locked in fierce combat with others wearing the insignia of the city watch—an insignia that should no longer exist. The organization had been officially disbanded, replaced by the Security Forces, yet here they were, fighting as if the revolution had never happened.

From her vantage point, it was obvious the revolutionaries were gaining the upper hand. They fought with the ferocity of men determined to see their cause through and greater skill, while the watch's forces seemed desperate, their formations disorganized, likely not having expected the assault. Still, Jean didn't want to risk too many of her soldiers falling in this pointless skirmish.

She raised her hand and, without a word, cast a mass petrification spell. Shimmering light spread from her hand and cascaded over the battlefield, washing over the city watch. One by one, they froze in place, their bodies turning to stone, their weapons halting mid-swing. The revolutionaries paused for a brief moment, stunned, then erupted into raucous cheers once they spotted her.

Jean nodded in satisfaction as her men began securing the area, moving around the stone statues of their former enemies. There was no need for bloodshed here anymore.

She turned away from the barracks and flew toward the next flash point, the adventurers' guild, where a new struggle caught her attention. From her height, she could see the distinct chaos of an all-out brawl. The revolutionary soldiers fought fiercely against both the remaining loyalists and, to her surprise, adventurers who had apparently joined the fray just for the sake of it. The battle was a tangled mess of blades, spells, and fists, with no clear victor.

Before she could intervene, a sudden movement atop the guild building caught her eye. A figure stood tall against the night sky, silhouetted by the flickering flames of the ongoing battles. It was a muscular woman with a long cloak and a wild grin.

Jean hovered in place, her eyes narrowing in recognition—the Guildmistress.

Merida tilted her head, her grin widening as she met Jean's gaze. There was a feral energy in the way she stood, as if she relished the madness unfolding below her. She raised her hand in a mock salute, her eyes gleaming with challenge. It was clear she had no intention of staying neutral in this conflict.

Chapter 120 - All You Need Is A Duel - Jean 8

"Are you sure this is what you want?" Jean felt the need to ask. She didn't necessarily think Merida had lost her mind or even betrayed the revolution. Instead, given the few interactions she had with the woman, she thought she was taking advantage of the night's chaos to get a good fight.

It sounded crazy, but that was the kind of woman the Giantslayer was.

"Let there never be any doubt that I will shirk the battlefield. Your men took up arms in my guild to arrest my people." The woman explained, though her grin was so excited that Jean doubted she was trying to convince her—it was just the barest hint of an excuse.

Still, Jean wasn't about to run away, especially since she could see several of her men faltering against the adventurers' assault now that most of the city watch had been taken out of the picture.

Given that they were only a small detachment and mostly made up of fresh recruits, they could be forgiven for their poor performance when faced with veteran fighters, especially since they hadn't been given any notice that this operation would happen to prevent leaks.

"Very well, but I'll set up protections. I don't care if a few benches get damaged, but a fight between us could level this neighborhood." This was as much a condition as a test to see how Merida would react.

“I have no problem with that. I trust you'll be honorable and not prepare spells in advance," the woman replied casually, again confirming that she hadn't suddenly switched sides. Or rather, she had never joined one side over the other and had simply reached the end of her patience. She wouldn't be denied a fight with a revolutionary council member any longer.

Jean descended into the heart of the plaza where the brawl was still raging. The sounds of clashing steel and the shouts of bleeding men overwhelmed any single voice, but with a wave of her hand, she silenced it all. A pulse of magic rippled outward, sending the combatants from both sides tumbling back like ragdolls, scattering them to the edges of the square. Before anyone could rise to their feet, the pavement beneath them seemed to liquefy, and tendrils of smooth stone flowed over their limbs, locking them in place.

Gasps of shock and confusion rippled through the crowd, but Jean's voice cut through it all, cold and clear. "Enough."

She let her gaze sweep over the immobilized fighters, her presence commanding the silence. "This fight is between the Guildmistress and me now. The rest of you will remain as spectators." She let that hang in the air for a beat, then added, "The stakes are simple. Whoever wins will dictate the terms to the loser. Agreed?"

From atop the building, Merida's grin widened, and a feral gleam entered her eyes. With a single, effortless leap, she landed in the center of the plaza, her heavy boots cracking the stone. "Agreed," she rumbled, radiating excitement.

The old witch might not like this, but there wasn’t another possible solution. I could have overwhelmed Merida before she could react, but that would have led to resentment down the line. Eliminating her outright would put the remaining adventurers against us, which is contrary to Leonard’s directions. She will have to pay a price for this rebellion, but it’s better than the alternatives.

Jean nodded, satisfied. Without another word, she raised her hands and wove a shimmering, silvery shield around the plaza's edges, arching high above them. It hummed with raw mana, solid enough to withstand several point-blank cannon blasts but flexible enough to absorb their aura. It glittered in the moonlight like the surface of a calm lake.

None of those present recognized the Imprimis Shield, a spell that only Champions could cast, owing to the immense control requirements.

The two women squared off, the tension thick enough to choke on. Jean's expression was serene and calm, while Merida's eyes gleamed fiercely. The Guildmistress cracked her knuckles, and with a low, guttural incantation, a massive buster sword materialized in her hands. The blade was nearly as tall as she was, carved with runes that flickered like lightning across its surface.

Without wasting another moment, Merida lunged, closing the distance between them in the blink of an eye. Her massive blade swung through the air with a speed that seemed impossible for its size, aimed straight to cut Jean in two. Merida was likely counting on taking Jean down before she could set up her defenses, a classic tactic for dealing with pure mages. Allowing a caster to prepare was the worst possible mistake, especially one of her level.

But Jean wasn't there in the first place.

The blade passed through nothing but air, and in the next instant, Merida's target dissolved into a burst of iridescent butterflies, scattering in all directions. Jean reappeared on the far side of the plaza, her form shimmering back into existence, perfectly composed.

Merida skidded to a halt, her boots grinding against the stone as she turned to face Jean. There was no anger in her expression, only raw exhilaration.

Jean raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure this is what you want?" she asked one last time, if only to assuage herself that she wasn't bullying a weaker being—today had already seen enough bloodshed, as far as she was concerned. She now understood Merida well enough to know that the woman wasn't here out of treachery.

"I've never been more sure," Merida growled, her grin widening. "Your soldiers stepped into my guild to arrest my men. But really, I just wanted to see if you were as good as they say."

Jean sighed lightly, though a faint smile tugged at her lips. "Very well," she said, her voice almost indulgent. "But don't say I didn't warn you."

With that, Jean made her move. She didn't summon anything grand or overwhelming—not yet. Instead, she unleashed a dizzying array of low-tier spells designed to disrupt and confound rather than devastate. Flashes of fire, water, and lightning rained down on Merida in rapid succession, forming a chaotic storm around the Guildmistress.

The woman's grin didn't falter as her buster sword spun and slashed through the air with perfect precision. Each time a spell came near, she either deflected it or allowed it to glance off her with a casual ease that belied her immense skill. More impressive, however, was how her body seemed to glow faintly with each deflected spell. Jean narrowed her eyes—Merida wasn't just enduring the spells; she was absorbing some of the mana, siphoning the energy into her own reserves with a deftness that made it hard to notice.

Interesting. She has clearly trained in some obscure martial art that allows her to use mana to fuel her buffs. That's a dangerous ability for anyone to have, much more so in her hands. After this is over, I'll have to get her to explain its principles. She'll have a lot of free time in jail anyway. I might even lighten her sentence if she's cooperative.

Still, the barrage of spells had served its purpose. Jean only needed time, and Merida had given it to her.

The ground beneath their feet began to tremble, the stone shifting and rumbling as if alive. The Guildmistress glanced down, her grin faltering for the first time as the earth rose up. Stone and dirt twisted and coiled, rising higher and higher until a massive golem stood towering above her. Its eyes glowed a fiery orange, and with a thunderous roar, it charged forward, shaking the plaza like a small earthquake.

Merida let out a bark of laughter, her excitement not dampened before the new challenge. She met the golem head-on, buster sword swinging in a wide arc that crashed against the stony body with a deafening clang. To her apparent surprise, the golem didn't even chip. Its stone surface absorbed the blow, and it retaliated with a massive swing of its own, its fist crashing down toward her.

Merida dodged easily and raised her sword to deflect another vicious strike, creating an opening she immediately took advantage of. But no matter how many times her blade connected, the golem simply reformed, its wounds closing as if they had never been there.

"I like this thing!" Merida shouted over the clash, her voice wild with exhilaration. Her entire body began to glow an angry red as the mana she had absorbed earlier flared to life. With a roar of her own, she drove forward, her strength magnified tenfold. The next strike of her buster sword was powerful enough to drive the golem back, its feet skidding across the stone.

Jean watched, quietly amused, as Merida hacked at the golem with growing intensity. The Guildmistress was a force of nature, with even more tricks than her profile suggested.

Merida's blade began to glow with searing heat, the runes on her sword flickering and shifting until the weapon was wreathed in flames. With a final, mighty swing, she cleaved through the golem's left arm, the stone melting away from the intense heat.

That finally seemed to do the trick. The golem roared in mock pain—Jean was nothing if not a good actress— and stepped back. As expected, the feral woman followed, never one to allow the momentum to slip by.

While Merida was focused on overpowering the golem, Jean's mind had been elsewhere, twisting and weaving the principles of elven magic she had observed earlier in the night. The spell she was crafting bore only a bare resemblance to its original form—it was a creation of her own design, of which she was quite proud, especially with how little time she had to work on it.

Just as Merida raised her sword to deliver another fiery blow and end the golem, Jean unleashed her spell. An invisible wave rippled through the air, and suddenly, Merida froze mid-swing. Mana arced around her form, trapping her in place. Her eyes widened in shock, and she tried to break free, but the more she struggled, the tighter the magic's hold became.

Her body glowed brighter as she attempted to channel more mana, but Jean's spell was already overwhelming her reserves. Her sword fell from her grip, clattering uselessly to the ground. Her eyes rolled back, her muscles twitching as the magic coursed through her, turning her power against her.

"Really, it was the worst matchup possible. A mana battery and a spell that works best the larger the target's reserves… I'll have to stop by and thank the old man after Damien is done with him."

Jean let the moment hang, calmly assessing her work. Once satisfied the fight had left her opponent, she released her hold, allowing Merida's limp form to drop unceremoniously to the ground. The Guildmistress groaned but made no attempt to rise.

Jean waved her hand, dismissing the shimmering shield that surrounded the plaza. "Victory is mine," she declared, her voice echoing across the now-silent square. "By the terms agreed upon, I will dictate the conditions. You will all surrender and be taken in.”

The immobilized adventurers looked on in stunned silence, none daring to move. With a flick of her wrist, Jean released her soldiers from the stone restraints, and they quickly moved to round up the remaining adventurers, who offered no further resistance.

Jean spared one last glance at Merida before turning away, her mind already moving to the other skirmishes still raging across the city. Soon after, she took to the sky, disappearing into the night as she went to lend her aid where it was needed most.

By the time the sun began to rise, the city had been brought back under control, and all the rebellious cells finally excised. Exhausted but satisfied, Jean returned to her study, ready to sleep the day off.

She found Demetria waiting for her, seated in a plush chair by the hearth with a steaming teapot on a tray.

"Busy night?" She asked, a soft smile on her lips.

Jean sighed, sinking into the sofa. "You could say that."

Demetria handed her a cup. Jean accepted it gratefully, letting the warmth seep into her hands as the two sat in companionable silence and slowly fell into sleep's embrace.

Chapter 121 - There is Always A Sneakier One - Lia 3

The clean-up took several more days. Lia had accounted for it, knowing better than to expect everything to go smoothly, but she was still behind on her schedule. No matter how much fun she had directing counterintelligence operations, she was still in charge of the alchemical supply lines for the liberated territories.

Still, I enjoyed myself. I thought these days were long behind me, but life always finds a way to surprise me. It was also a necessary step to bring our forces to bear against the enemies outside. It will be worth that much more if the meeting this afternoon goes well.

Walking through the castle's corridors with her usual gait—not even a few batches coming late would make her hurry— Lia was greeted much more respectfully than she was used to.

Not that anyone had treated her without due deference before. The revolution championed equal rights for all, and even if that had not been the case, the soldiers all worshipped Leonard far too much to question his decision to give her so much influence.

And yet, Lia was conscious of the image she projected. A frail old hobgoblin she was, and that she had remained, no matter the added veil of her position until she actively showed everyone what she was capable of.

Yes, I doubt they expected me to melt through wards with a single vial and force those rats out with poison gas.

"It is always lovely to see you smile, Dear Lia." A suave voice interrupted her.

"You are lucky you are valuable, or I'd have you whipped for toying with a lady's heart." She replied dismissively, continuing her walk to the labs.

There was a beat of silence.

"Now, now, there is no need to go that far. You know that everything I do is for the greater good of the revolution." He continued, undaunted.

Lia glanced sidelong at the man walking beside her, a playful smirk tugging at the corners of her lips. The vicar was always too smooth for his own good—something she often found both amusing and annoying.

"Greater good or not," she replied with the sharpness of someone who'd seen far too much in her time, "I've noticed how you mostly use your charms to manipulate younger ladies. And while I understand your dedication to the cause, I can't say I approve of your methods."

Lia wasn't one to quibble about morals. Light knew she had done her fair share of horrible things. But there were limits to everything, and if a stern talking-to was enough to prevent a negative drift from becoming a way of being, she'd step up and take the kid to task.

Damien raised an eyebrow in a practiced expression of mock innocence. "My dear Lia, I am married to the job," he protested with a light chuckle, "too devoted to the Holy Light and the Revolution to entertain any such notions. The young ladies you speak of are simply inspired by my passion—nothing more."

Lia gave a snort of laughter, though her eyes glinted with steel. "It's exactly that cold devotion that makes it despicable, Damien. If you were playing around out of genuine carnal interest, I'd at least understand. But you’re toying with their hearts for the sake of your plans, consciously making them believe they might have a chance without ever thinking of them as more than tools." She shrugged, her smirk fading into something more serious. "It's one thing to manipulate the minds of enemies, but using young maidens like that is unnecessary and foolish in the long run. There is a saying about women being scorned for a reason."

Damien threw his head back, laughing as if she had just paid him a compliment. "Coming from you, that's rich, Lia. Are we forgetting how you manipulated little Jean? Guiding her to deal with those noble mages exactly as you wanted—right into your carefully laid trap. Didn't that little scheme force the girl to kill men she once called comrades?"

Lia's expression didn't change, but her eyes grew colder. "She needed that lesson," she replied flatly. "Her heart was too soft, her mind too clouded with sentimentality. I didn't manipulate her—I gave her the push she needed to survive. It was a hard lesson, but it was necessary. I won't apologize for that."

"Of course, you won't," Damien mused, casting a knowing glance her way. "You never do."

Lia gave him a sideways glance as they continued walking. "And neither do you, which is precisely why we always end up having these conversations."

Damien chuckled again, his hands casually tucked behind his back. "Well, you can't deny that we're effective in our own ways. I use words. You use unconventional means."

"I'm not arguing effectiveness," Lia said, lowering her voice as they neared the heavy iron door of the laboratory. "What I'm arguing is principle. Your methods, Damien, are dangerous. Not just for those girls but for the revolution itself. False hope has a way of backfiring."

He sighed, pausing as they reached the door. "You sound like Gerard now. Always lecturing me about principles, the heart of the cause, and the morality of it all. But sometimes, sacrifices need to be made."

Lia turned sharply to face him, her eyes now blazing with intensity. "I'm not Gerard, Damien, and I will never condone what you do, even if I understand it. You twist devotion into manipulation and turn loyalty into something shallow and empty, no matter how dedicated you might personally be to Leonard. And that—" she jabbed a finger toward his chest, "—is something I will never forgive."

Silence hung between them for a moment, tension crackling like static in the air. Damien met her gaze with a smile that was far too calm and collected. He nodded as if accepting her words, though the glint in his eyes suggested he didn't take them to heart.

"Understood," he said finally, his voice low and smooth. "Though I think we can both agree that there are worse evils to be concerned about."

Lia didn't respond. She pushed open the heavy door and stepped into the laboratory.

There were more important matters to attend to.

“And then I told her she needed to start working much harder. You'd have thought I slapped her if you hadn't been there. Honestly, Lamberta is such an idiot for being so smart. I understand that her talent meant she never really had to apply herself, but I can only bear so much whining until—"

"Enough. I already told you to check the newest moonflowers' reactive score, but you have yet to do so. Now we'll fall even further behind schedule." Lia interrupted, voice harsher than she initially intended.

Margaret shrank back, eyes wide. It had been a while since she had reprimanded her so openly, but the girl was becoming more air-headed as she grew. "I don't care about your teenage drama as long as it doesn't interfere with our work, but the moment you fall behind on quality control, everyone else also has to stop working, and you know we need to have the Restorative Draughts ready for the next push. If you can't do it, I'll assign someone else to it."

Margaret flinched as if the reprimand had physically struck her. Her face flushed with embarrassment, and she quickly lowered her gaze. “I'm sorry, Mistress," she mumbled, her voice barely audible. "I'll focus more; it won't happen again."

Lia sighed, her frustration ebbing as she watched the girl's reaction. Margaret wasn't lazy—far from it—but she was young and sometimes too easily distracted by the petty dramas of life. Still, she had potential, and it wouldn't do to crush her spirit completely.

Lia's voice softened, surprising even herself. "I’m sorry too, Margaret. I’ve had a long night. Stressful." She rubbed her temples, feeling the tension gather there. "But you know how tight the schedule is. We can't afford delays right now, not when every hour of production means a dozen fewer deaths."

Margaret hesitated for a moment before stepping forward and gently touching Lia's hand. It was a gesture of solidarity that caught Lia off guard. The girl's smile was warm and sincere. "I know. I'll do better. I promise."

Lia huffed, but a faint smile touched her lips. She patted Margaret's head with a light, almost playful touch. "Good. Now stop sulking and make yourself useful. Go fetch our guest from the reception room." Her tone was brusque, but there was no real bite to it.

Margaret's eyes lit up, and she nodded quickly before scurrying out of the room. Lia watched her go, a small smirk still lingering on her face.

A few minutes later, the door opened again, and Margaret returned, leading an older woman into the lab. She appeared to be in her fifties, but she was still strikingly beautiful, with an air of elegance that radiated from her in waves. Her chestnut hair was carefully styled, and her skin was smooth—too smooth, a telltale sign of certain alchemical enhancements. Her eyes, sharp and calculating, swept over the room like a hawk surveying its prey.

Lia folded her arms, her posture relaxing only slightly—it wouldn't do to appear tense. "Iulia," she greeted, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Still clinging to those youth potions, I see. One would think a Master Alchemist could whip up something a little less obvious."

Iulia's lips curved into a smirk as she glided across the room like a dancer. "And I see you've done absolutely nothing to improve your appearance," she retorted smoothly, her eyes flicking over Lia's hunched frame and wrinkled face. "Really, Lia, with your skills, you could at least try not to look like you've just crawled out of a crypt. Or is that part of your charm now? Are you trying to attract a necromancer?"

Standing just behind Iulia, Margaret gasped audibly at the exchange, her eyes widening in shock. "Y-you're a Master Alchemist?" she blurted, clearly taken aback by the venomous banter between the two women.

Lia chuckled dryly. "Yes, Margaret. Iulia here was once my co-apprentice. We've known each other for far too long." Her tone was laced with irony, but beneath it was a familiarity that came with years of working alongside someone—however much you might want to throttle them.

Iulia sat with the same feline grace, her eyes gleaming as they settled on Margaret. She smiled, but it was the kind of smile a tiger might wear before pouncing on its prey. "Don't worry, dear; your mistress and I go way back. We'll get to know each other better since I’ll be helping out with some of the brewing duties. We can't have her running herself into the ground any more than she already has." Her gaze flickered back to Lia, amusement dancing in her eyes.

Lia's brows lifted in surprise. "You're actually here to help? Does that mean the Association accepted my request?"

Iulia's smile widened. "Indeed. It seems the Royal Court has overstepped. They've taken several of our Masters hostage and show no signs of releasing them anytime soon." She leaned back in her chair, her tone casual. "The Association is finally willing to throw its weight behind the revolution. I'll oversee the initial operations as we bring your production lines up to speed."

Lia's eyes narrowed, studying her old colleague carefully. This was much more than she had requested—indeed, she had leveraged her connection in the hopes of getting some backroom deal for a few more apprentices and lines into the northern markets. "Has Nevielle gone insane, then? He has to know that attacking one alchemist is the same as attacking all of us. Especially a Master."

Iulia shrugged elegantly. "I'm not privy to what led to the mess, but no matter the specifics, the Association is now supporting the Glorious Revolution, at least for now. The Court has gone too far and left us little choice." Her eyes sparkled with something like satisfaction, which told Lia that she knew something more and that it would cost a lot to learn.

Lia leaned back slightly, momentarily satisfied. “I suppose that’s enough for now."

Now, if only I knew what the prime minister is plotting. That man is far too cunning to make a mistake this big.

Chapter 122 - Keep Yo Head Down - Jeremiah 2

"How sure are we that the orcs have joined up?"

Jeremiah managed to rein in his sigh. If there was one thing this campaign had done, it was to show him that the upper ranks of the royal army functioned only because of a few very intelligent generals and lieutenants. Most of the brass was made up of idiots or brutes who had gotten to their positions through nepotism.

"We have visual confirmation of at least a hundred orc warriors scouting the Stepson, my lord. If they had simply decided to take advantage of the fighting to raid the nearby towns, they would have gone through the forest. The only reasonable explanation is that they are working for the rebels." He answered, keeping his back straight and his expression placid. He might not think these men were worth much, but they could still ruin his life if he allowed his thoughts to surface.

Bah. A hundred orc warriors might have been a problem if we only had a couple of Corps, but with the reinforcements from Hassel on the march and the reassurances we got from the capital that they’d send help soon, we have nothing to fear. I say we finish setting up around Pepperhof and stop them here!" Another general exclaimed, banging his fist on the table as if that would give his words more validity.

Count Pollus remained silent, watching the exchange without expressing his opinion. Jeremiah knew this meant he was waiting for someone to provide him with an actual plan rather than just empty posturing.

Not one to expose himself to criticism when it wasn't needed, Jeremiah stood quietly near the cramped war room’s corner, his face a mask of neutrality as the generals squabbled like children over a toy. His hand absently tapped against the hilt of his sword, a small but habitual motion he used to keep from sighing aloud or letting his frustration show. The noble commanders seemed more concerned with their egos than with the looming threat of the Revolutionary Army crossing the Stepchild and entering the last loyal region of Hetnia.

“You want us to hide and wait for them to come to us like cowards?" A burly, red-faced older man growled, gripping the table with enough force to leave marks. "We should meet them head-on at the river, smash them before they even cross! This is our best chance to crush them before they become a real problem!"

"And send our men to drown in that cursed river?" General Morrison, gaunt and pale from the hard march that brought the latest batch of soldiers from Hassel to Pepperhof, shot back, his voice tight with barely contained frustration. "It's madness to commit our full strength to a single point when we don't even know if they'll attack Pepperhof with us here. You'd have us charge straight into a trap or, worse, allow them to go around us just because you are scared to face them in an open field!"

"You're the one who's scared," the red-faced general sneered. "You think that we'll get another chance like this?!"

"Scared of a fool's death, yes!" Morrison retorted, his eyes flashing with contempt. "The rebels have shown themselves to be cunning and ruthless. Sending the entire army to one place without an idea of their numbers would leave us vulnerable elsewhere, and you know what will happen to those left unprotected."

The room descended into a cacophony of raised voices and accusations, the generals trading insults back and forth. Jeremiah kept his gaze steady on Count Pollus, waiting for the inevitable moment he would finally speak. The man's sharp eyes observed the bickering nobles like a hawk. One of his favorite tactics was letting fools talk themselves into corners before swooping in with an actual plan that the others couldn’t complain about without giving their opponents an advantage.

Jeremiah's thoughts likely mirrored Pollus's concerns. The idea of committing all their forces to defend or attack a single location without proper intelligence was suicidal. The Revolutionary Army had repeatedly proven that it was far more capable than many of these nobles gave it credit for. Underestimating them was a fatal mistake they couldn't afford to make anymore. It had already cost them two-thirds of Hetnia. If they didn't defeat them here, before Hassel was threatened, they'd lose their heads, whether the province was eventually retaken or not.

Finally, Pollus raised a hand, and the room fell silent almost immediately. The count's voice was low, but there was an edge of command that brooked no argument. "We will not throw our forces blindly into battle," Pollus said, his gaze sweeping over the assembled generals. "Nor will we cower behind walls and let the rebels dictate the terms. Instead, we will deploy smaller, mobile groups of mounted men to key points along the river at any possible crossing. The rest of the army will remain stationed near Pepperhof at maximum readiness. I want it ready to move where needed at any time. If the rebels make a concentrated push, we must be able to respond without being caught off guard."

Jeremiah allowed a small nod of approval. It was the most sensible option, given the uncertainty of the rebels' movements and the treacherous nature of the Stepchild. It was a large, fast-flowing distributary notorious for its unpredictable currents and the dangerous elementals lurking beneath its surface. Preparing an attack across the river without knowing the enemy's plans would be madness. With smaller, mobile groups, they could cover more ground and react quickly—especially since they had lost track of the rebels days ago.

One of the generals, whose expression gave away his with doubt, opened his mouth to protest, but Pollus fixed him with a steely glare. "This is not up for debate," he said firmly. "We will not waste more lives than needed on foolish showboating. Prepare your men for the new orders."

The room fell into an awkward silence as the generals slowly filed out, leaving only Pollus and Jeremiah standing by the large map spread across the table.

It was happening more and more often. The generals jockeyed for prestige and resources, and Count Pollus had to put them back in their place. Unfortunately, the loss of face he suffered after it was found out that he had fallen for a diversion in the east meant he couldn't ignore them as he had at the beginning. Thus, he was forced to allow them to speak and bicker until it became apparent that consensus couldn't be reached without his intervention.

Jeremiah didn't feel affection for the man, but he could empathize with his position.

Pollus stared down at the map, tracing the river with his finger. "Pepperhof is a ruse," he muttered, half to himself, half to Jeremiah. "The rebels aren't stupid; they must know we are already here. They've been too quiet, and we haven't seen a trace of them for days. They're planning something big elsewhere."

Yeah, that, and also, you've gotten even more paranoid. Still, telling you that is not my job, and I don't want to lose my head.

"I agree, my lord. They may have changed tactics now that they have help from the forest's denizens." He paused, then added more pointedly, "From the dryad."

Pollus grunted, his face twisting in displeasure. "Yes, the dryad," he muttered, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "That damned dryad... it's possible. We have lost all contacts from our scouts in that area, and we know the rebels have been gaining allies wherever they can, no matter the price they have to pay for it."

Jeremiah nodded. He certainly wouldn't distribute power and authority like candy if he were in charge of the revolution, but he couldn't deny that it was succeeding. "It would explain why we've seen nothing of them. If the dryad has flipped to their side, they could be moving through the Darkwood. It would allow them to avoid the worst of the Stepchild.

Pollus's expression darkened as he considered the possibility. "I want proof," he finally said. "Take a group of men and head to the forest. See if you can find anything more concrete than speculation. If she has broken her neutrality, this war will become far more complicated."

Jeremiah bowed his head. "As you command, my lord. I'll gather a squad and depart immediately." Without another word, he turned on his heel and left the room.

"Ulbert, Stephan, Thomas, with me," Jeremiah ordered, sweeping through the house his men were occupying.

The sound of footsteps following him outside made him grunt in satisfaction. At least he had instilled some discipline in them after months of social engineering.

"Thomas, I need you to find the best horses in town. I don't care if a general has called dibs for their nephew's expedition. Do whatever you need to do, but get enough for everyone who’s going." With that, his subordinate peeled off, silently acknowledging his order. "Stephan, I need everything you have on the Darkwood. Go to the bursar and get enough money to bribe the veteran mages who fought during the Incursion. Either get them to come with us or get their knowledge."

When it was just Ulbert and him, Jeremiah stopped. They were in a quiet courtyard usually employed by washerwomen but that was now empty, hidden from sight even from above. "Ulbert, I need insurance in case we actually meet the rebels. Put together a plan that allows us to leave alive. As long as thirty percent of the guys survive, I'll allow it, but try to find a way to preserve our strength."

The sallow-faced man dipped his head, "Yes, Captain. Any restrictions on damage?"

Jeremiah felt his face twist, "I'd like to say no, but if we are overly destructive, we'll call too much attention to ourselves. Let's say you can use the things that came with the last drop, but not what’s in the black box."

Ulbert's thin lips curled into a grim smile as he nodded and turned to leave. Jeremiah watched him go, suppressing a shiver that had nothing to do with the cool breeze. He knew better than to ask too many questions, as the man had been useful in the past. Too useful, perhaps. Men like him weren't the kind you wanted to keep around for too long.

Sighing, he rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the knots of tension there as he wandered through the narrow streets of Pepperhof. The town had a certain charm in a rustic, gritty way. The air was thick with the scent of pepper, the prized spice for which the town was known. Wagons laden with sacks of the stuff rolled over cobblestone roads as the last shipments before the expected siege went out. The merchants here made good money, or at least they used to.

It wasn't a bad place. It was just unlucky to be in the path of the war.

Much like the men preparing to defend it, Jeremiah thought. The soldiers, the commanders, and even the civilians were all waiting for the siege with weary resignation. Pepperhof sat too close to the rebel front. Everyone knew it was only a matter of time before the fighting reached them.

Jeremiah turned down a side street, allowing his mind to wander. The rebels were clever, no doubt about it. They hadn't made any major moves since taking Treon, but that worried him. That city's loss lifted the threat level from annoyingly competent to actually dangerous, even if corruption and internal strife might have paved the way.

His success in the east was one of the few shining lights of the campaign, even though it hadn't led to much. He'd kept his head down after it, done his work efficiently, and thought he had succeeded in staying beneath the notice of the envious generals. But the grim atmosphere pushed people to look for heroes, and now he had more eyes on him than ever.

That was what had led the capital's agent to contact him. It had certainly been nerve-wracking, but he knew he was on the right path. He couldn't afford to die now that he had finally earned some attention.

The truth was, Jeremiah didn't care about the moral reasons behind this war. The liberation of slaves? He scoffed at the thought. That was nothing more than a desperate attempt by the rebels to bolster their ranks with people who had no choice but to fight for their so-called freedom. It wasn't noble—it was pragmatism. Jeremiah could appreciate that, even if he didn't believe in their cause.

What he did believe in, however, was survival. The Revolutionary Army wasn't just a ragtag group of idealists anymore. They had dangerous people in their ranks—people who knew how to fight, manipulate, and win. And if the strings of failures the royal army had suffered recently were any indication, they were serious trouble. Treon had been the last in a long line of mistakes, and Jeremiah knew that a loss here would likely mean the end of more than just his career.

He paused at the edge of a small square, watching a group of children run past, laughing as they kicked a worn leather ball. They were oblivious to the conflict looming over their town, over their future. How long would it be before this square was filled with soldiers instead of children? How long before the smell of spices was replaced with the stench of blood?

Jeremiah ran a hand through his hair, sighing. He had options, sure. He could take the offer from the capital, align himself with the powers that be and secure a future for himself. That would be the route he had planned for—that he had dreamed of. Or he could play it as he had until now, stay loyal to Pollus and the army, and ride the high of victory into much more than a middling position at Court.

Neither option seemed without its dangers.

But for now, he would follow Pollus's orders and head to the Darkwood.

One step at a time, Jeremiah. Just keep your head down and do what needs to be done. Don't lose sight of the target.

Chapter 123 - Midnight Missions - Oliver 11

Life had been hectic lately, and it wasn't likely to get any better. While Oliver wouldn't shy away from his duties, even he could admit that he needed some time away. With the excuse of polishing his sword—the steel one—he found a remote clearing and tried to make sense of the general situation.

Crossing the Stepchild had ended up being easier than expected. Its churning waters had suddenly calmed, and the omnipresent feeling of being observed by something hostile had gone away as if the water elementals had suddenly fled, only to return a day later angrier than ever.

Oliver didn't know the specifics of what had led to that, no matter how sure his friends were that he knew and wasn't telling. Still, he had listened to enough snippets of conversation between his mentor and high-ranking officers to realize something huge had gone down in the South. Huge enough to have repercussions here, too.

Whatever Leonard and Amelia had planned worked out well, and the army was able to cross the river unimpeded.

Indeed, everything went so smoothly that they completed the operation in just a few hours and avoided being spotted by the occasional patrols that ranged along the river by hiding deep in the Darkwood.

Many within the army believed this would lead to an immediate assault on Pepperhof—the largest town and seat of Count Pollus's army, according to the latest reports—but they spent the past couple of days settling the orc warriors into their ranks and solving the last outstanding issues before the coming blitz.

And a blitz it'll be. Sir Leonard made it clear that once we get going, we won't stop until we reach Hassel. Whether we break Pollus here or force him to retreat, we'll keep marching. If we give them too much time, the royal court will start interfering, and while I don't doubt we'd defeat anything they can throw at us, it'll be much, much harder.

"There you are." A familiar, melodic voice interrupted him, though Oliver didn't sigh. Lady Amelia wouldn't bother him without a reason.

He put his sword down and stood up, inclining his head in greeting, "My lady, how may I help you?"

"Oh, look at you, all grown up. Reaching Expert at your age is no mean feat. I wanted to congratulate you on that and the coming knighthood." She replied, stepping fully into view.

As always, she was a vision of comeliness, with just enough mystery and danger to never lose effect.

"I'm not yet a knight. I told Sir Leonard I wouldn't feel it was right to receive it for what happened at the orc village." Though he hadn't been the main culprit, he had certainly helped make things worse, and while he was proud of his accomplishments, he wanted to earn a knighthood on the field, as was proper.

"Yes, yes," she waved his objection off, "I know that. But now that you've reached the necessary power, and no one can gainsay you, it's only a matter of time."

Oliver inclined his head in agreement but didn't reply. She wouldn't have come just to say that, and he was finding that the less he spoke, the more people just told him what they wanted. Or maybe it was because of his latest Blessing. He was still getting used to being treated as something special because of his merits.

"I may have found exactly that opportunity for you," she finally said, purple eyes glinting dangerously, and Oliver knew he'd go along with her request.

He was humble, but that didn't mean he wasn't ambitious.

"I bet that the orcs were proper miffed at being told we'd take this mission," Hector mused with a grin, easily following Oliver as he jumped from one tree to the next.

"They had plenty of fun picking off the scouts over the past couple of days. They have nothing to complain about," Esmeria, Oliver's second in command for this specific mission and his likely lieutenant-to-be should he be knighted and receive the rank of Captain, replied.

She was a lithe ranger who had proven to be level-headed and talented enough to deserve the position. She had an unbroken winning streak on the training grounds against the others who made up Oliver's unofficial corp.

"I still don't see how anyone would think this is fun. We are going against the Count's right-hand man! This is dangerous!" Lucy complained, almost tearing her hair out. Despite her misgivings, the mage followed obligingly, weightlessly stepping from one tree to the next thanks to her wind magic.

"Then stay hidden and don't let them see you," Oliver said. He appreciated her; he really did. She gave the group enormous flexibility with her utility spells, but her pessimism could sometimes be grating. "We're not here for fun or glory. We're here to do a job." He glanced back at her and offered a brief, reassuring nod. "Lady Amelia's information has always proven solid. Stick to the plan, and we'll be fine."

They continued along the route. The dense canopy allowed them to move quickly without fear of being noticed in case the enemy happened to be closer than expected.

Oliver's eyes roved constantly, scanning for any signs of danger. Though they were following a path that had been divined beforehand, he wasn't about to collect his first failure just because he was careless. Unlike the southerners, the Count's men were thorough, and the losses they had suffered recently only made them more vigilant. They needed a big win to maintain morale, and Oliver would not be the one to give it to them, especially not on the mission meant to grant him his knighthood.

The group of twelve moved like shadows through the trees, their progress nearly silent thanks to Lucy's enchantments. She wove her magic as a faint haze of wind that dampened their sounds and blurred their movements. The others followed Oliver's lead, splitting into pairs to cover more ground and avoid leaving a single path that could be easily tracked.

After some time, he spotted the first signs that their target was nearby. A patch of underbrush lay flattened, its branches bent at odd angles as though trampled by something heavier than a deer. Further along, a narrow path cut through the foliage, its edges marked with broken twigs and crushed leaves.

He raised a hand, signaling a halt, and the group gathered atop a sturdy, twisted oak with wide branches that provided cover from the ground.

Esmeria crouched beside him, surveying the signs. "We're close. Given the sticky sap, the disturbance is fresh—probably no more than an hour old. This is almost too obvious."

"Then they know we're coming," Hector muttered, his usual grin absent. "Why don't we break the ambush before they can spring it? Hit them hard and fast from multiple sides before they're ready."

Oliver shook his head. "No. We stick to the plan," he said firmly. He was confident in his skills, but being arrogant now would be a potentially fatal mistake. The reports about the Count's adjutant painted him as a ruthless man, and he wouldn't give the man any chance. "Lady Amelia's instructions were clear—we need to avoid anyone leaving with confirmation of our presence, and springing an ambush is too risky. I won't bet everything on a direct assault, especially since these tracks suggest at least twenty men. If we all go charging in, we'll lose the advantage.

"And if they see through the ruse?" Esmeria interjected, her brow furrowing with concern. "If they have set this up, they know we are coming. It's even possible they have prepared for orcs." And they weren't nearly as durable as orcs, went unsaid.

Oliver glanced around the group, reading the unease on their faces. "That's why we need to be ready to follow my orders," he said, a slight edge creeping into his tone. "I trust every one of you to pull off your part. For everything else, I'll take care of it."

There were nods of assent, though Hector still looked like he would prefer a more aggressive approach. Oliver didn't blame him; it was the natural impulse when facing a dangerous enemy. Still, Amelia had warned him that Jeremiah D'antan was a cunning opponent. If he had entered the forest, it meant he thought he could exit it despite knowing orcs heavily patrolled it.

He divided the group, sending seven of them with him to the ground, where they would appear to be on a forward patrol, while the other four, including Lucy, remained among the trees to cover them. He felt the comforting weight of his sword at his side as he landed, his feet barely making a sound thanks to the soft earth.

"Keep your head in the game," he murmured, glancing over his shoulder at his companions as they fanned out behind him. Animal sounds were entirely absent now, indicating more than any tracks that they were close.

They followed the trail to its end, reaching a small clearing where the path opened and twilight-orange sunlight filtered through the canopy in patches. At the far side of the clearing sat two dozen mounted men, their armor gleaming dully. The sight of the horses, still and patient rather than grazing, revealed that they had been waiting for some time.

At the head of the group, a man sat astride a black horse, his gaze as cold and still as winter ice. Dark hair hung down his back in a long braid, and his expression was one of practiced indifference. Jeremiah D'antan was just as Lady Amelia had described—a man with soulless, frigid eyes that seemed to bore right through to the bone. Oliver had no trouble believing he'd be capable of anything.

Still, he had a part to play. He stepped forward, keeping his hand near the hilt of his sword but not drawing it yet. "Well met," he called out, his tone calm but firm. "You're a long way from Pepperhof, solder. Are you lost or just looking for trouble?"

Jeremiah's gaze drifted over Oliver as though weighing and measuring him. "I could ask the same of you. Your camp must be pretty deep in the forest to have escaped our scouts," he replied, his voice smooth and unhurried. "But I suspect you aren't likely to tell where, are you?”

“No, I’m not," Oliver replied drily. "Why don't we skip the pleasantries and go straight to your surrender? There's no need for bloodshed if you're willing to cooperate."

A faint smile tugged at the corner of Jeremiah's mouth, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Cooperate? You misunderstand, my friend. I'm not here to negotiate. You will come back with me to Pepperhof."

Oliver's fingers tightened around his sword's hilt as he saw Jeremiah give a subtle nod. The movement was so slight it could have been missed if one wasn't watching closely. But Oliver was watching and saw the shift in the mounted men as they reached for their pouches, grabbing vials.

They threw them, and the world exploded.

Oliver called upon the Light, and it answered immediately, as it had since his latest Blessing. A bright shield formed around his companions even as a firestorm raged around them.

"Running into that might have been a mistake," Hector murmured, earning a snort.

Instead of fading away, though, the flames kept increasing in intensity, slowly shifting from the bright red and yellow of a magical explosion to the poisonous green of an alchemical one that Oliver recognized from his basic lessons with Old Lia, where he was taught never to allow such a flame to go out of control, as it would consume anything to keep feeding itself. It was so dangerous that apprentices were never allowed to brew by themselves until they demonstrated their ability to keep one contained all day and night.

The fact that the loyalists would use an alchemical explosion of this size to attack them made him realize that D'antan hadn't intended to capture anyone; he was trying to kill them.

Chapter 124 - Make the Best of It - Jeremiah 3

This isn't going to plan.

Things rarely did when the revolutionaries were involved, but Jeremiah shared some of the blame this time. Trusting Ulbert to handle the preparations without oversight had been a mistake.

The gigantic green fireball extending up into the sky would act as a beacon to call all the nearby rebel forces to them, and while ordinarily, Jeremiah wouldn't have minded and might have even planned to use the chance to kill more, he was currently in a very unenviable position.

Half of his men were in various states of injury, saved from a fiery death only thanks to his meticulous planning for every possibility. The other half were busy fending off the increasingly heated assault from a group of teenage rebels.

That sounded ridiculous even to his ears, but Jeremiah wouldn't deny what his eyes were showing him. Led by a paladin who looked barely old enough to grow hair and certainly not old enough to have a beard, several more surprisingly young warriors were pushing his own men back.

The air was thick with smoke as the roaring green flames devoured tree after tree. Jeremiah's eyes swept over the battlefield, taking in the state of things: many of his men were wounded, and the few standing were struggling, their formation barely holding against the relentless assault. It wasn't how he imagined things would go, but he could still salvage it.

Tossing a satchel with healing potions onto the ground beside his fallen soldiers, he barked a curt command. "Share these among yourselves and reorganize. I'll buy you time."

With a swift motion, he drew his rapier and began channeling his usual suit of battle enhancements. His focus settled on the young paladin who had just knocked Thomas off balance and was raising his blade for the killing blow. Jeremiah surged forward, intercepting the strike with a ringing clash of steel. He twisted his wrist, forcing his opponent back a step, and planted himself between the boy and his wounded subordinate.

"Not today, child," Jeremiah growled, his voice low and edged with cold amusement. It never failed to draw a reaction, and he’d need all his tricks if he wanted to get out of the Darkwood before reinforcements arrived.

His opponent's eyes narrowed in recognition, but there was no hint of fear in his gaze, only a grim determination. He grunted in acknowledgment, his stance shifting fluidly as he raised his sword again. "You must be the adjutant," the boy said steadily, even as the forest burned around them. "I was hoping we'd get a chance to meet."

We really have a mole of some kind. It shouldn't be possible for the rebels to have insight this precise in our ranks.

"Then, by all means," Jeremiah replied, setting the matter aside for the moment, "let's not disappoint."

The young paladin charged, his sword glowing with holy fervor as he launched into a series of rapid strikes. Jeremiah met him blow for blow, deflecting each attack with precise movements, his rapier darting like a serpent. Sparks flew as their blades clashed, faster and faster, until it was clear that this wouldn't end in a single engagement.

The boy fought with skill and speed beyond his years, his strength and resolve seemingly inexhaustible. Even as Jeremiah pressed his advantage, exploiting openings and testing the boy's defenses, the attacks kept coming, his strikes growing fiercer with each passing moment.

An Expert. Jeremiah had suspected as much from the start, given his ability to withstand an alchemical fireball, but experiencing the boy's power firsthand was a different matter. The young paladin moved with a fluid grace that could only have come from rigorous training, and there was an untamed energy in his strikes—a burning intensity that made up for his lack of experience.

Still, Jeremiah's years of battle-hardened skill gave him the upper hand. He maneuvered the kid around the battlefield, keeping him on the back foot, his rapier flashing to deliver shallow cuts through the gaps he deliberately opened, testing the boy's limits.

Yet, it wasn't enough. Every time he tried to [Penetrate] the boy's armor—something he was known for and that had granted him victory over significantly more experienced foes—his blade skittered over the plate, forcing him to aim at the few gaps and considerably reducing his effectiveness.

For every strike Jeremiah delivered, the kid seemed to draw on some hidden reserve of strength, refusing to yield ground. Around them, the loyalist soldiers were falling back under the renewed onslaught of the young rebels. The gap between Jeremiah and his men was widening, and he could see the desperation grow on their faces, given the absence of further ground to retreat. The clearing that was supposed to be a death trap for the rebels would become their resting place if nothing changed.

If this continued, even if he managed to cut the boy down, it would be a hollow victory. The losses would be too significant, and he would have no supporters left to speak of when he returned to Pepperhof. That wasn't something he could afford if he wanted to keep his position, much less climb through the ranks.

Jeremiah made a decision, one he knew would rankle, but he wasn't about to lose everything here. "Ulbert!" he shouted, his voice cutting through the chaos. "Clear us a path!"

For a moment, he saw the hesitation in Ulbert's eyes—a flicker of doubt, perhaps, or disapproval at what was essentially an order to retreat before a bunch of greenhorns. But the man obeyed, weaving his hands through the air in a rapid motion. More explosions tore through the clearing the next instant, growing like malevolent flowers. Flames surged and spread, devouring everything in their path. Several rebels cried out as they were caught in the blast, their figures swallowed by the raging inferno.

The kid's head snapped toward the screams, and Jeremiah seized the moment, casting [Blossoming Strike] and lunging forward with a thrust aimed at the boy's neck. But the young paladin twisted away at the last moment, quicker than expected. Once again, Jeremiah's rapier screeched over the pauldron, leaving not even a scratch behind.

That it managed to deflect his most lethal skill, which he had personally developed over the years and proved capable of penetrating even a Whiteguard’s enchanted plate, confirmed that this kid was not just a talented commander. Jeremiah would have to ensure his presence was brought to the brass's attention, as he was likely to have a connection with the Hero.

Despite the close shave, the young paladin didn't retaliate; instead, he hurled himself toward his men, desperately trying to pull them from the flames' hungry grasp.

Jeremiah didn't waste time. With a swift gesture, he signaled his men to follow, slashing through a wall of fire to carve a path out of the clearing. The heat bit at his skin, and the acrid scent of burning wood and flesh stung his nostrils, but he pushed forward, his rapier cutting through the smoke. Little more than half his men stumbled after him, some limping, others dragging themselves along, their mounts either lost or too injured to keep up. Jeremiah didn't look back.

Soon enough, they burst out of the burning forest and into the open night air, and for once, Jeremiah thanked the Darkwood for being such a densely magical forest—it would take a long time before even the alchemical fire could spread, if the guardian didn't extinguish it first.

His lungs filled with the cool breeze, even as his mind raced. The retreat had cost them dearly in terms of pride and money, as such valuable horses wouldn't be replaceable on the battlefield, and it would be a while before he could muster another raid of this size. But as he regrouped with the remnants of his men, his thoughts returned to what he had come here to confirm, and he found peace in the certainty that he had gotten what he came for.

The rebels were here, hiding within the Darkwood.

His suspicions were confirmed, and that knowledge alone was worth a humiliating retreat.

As Jeremiah led his men away, he glanced back occasionally, noting that the flames hadn't spread as quickly as he had initially feared. The magical nature of the Darkwood was slowing the fire's progress, containing the blaze enough that it hadn't yet gotten out of control.

Now, a good mile away from the fire, Jeremiah started looking for signs of the rest of his company. They had been stationed beyond the tree line, tasked with maintaining the perimeter in case things went awry, and he needed someone to slow down pursuers, but he was afraid they might have been ambushed since they weren't where they were supposed to be and the night had already gone to shit.

Fortunately, he found them only a few hundred feet from where he had left them, gathered in a circle around the road. The sounds of scuffling and muffled cries reached Jeremiah's ears before he got close enough to see what was causing them: a small merchant caravan, perhaps a dozen people with four carts laden with the last cargo they could muster before the northern regions of Hetnia descended into chaos. His men surrounded the merchants, prodding them with the blunt ends of their spears, overturning crates, and tearing at their possessions.

The merchants' faces lit up with a brief flicker of hope when they spotted Jeremiah walking in, his officer's insignia glinting on his chest. Several rushed forward, their voices raised in desperate entreaties.

"Sir! Please, your men—"

"—they're out of control! This is robbery!"

"Have mercy, sir! We're loyal to King Vasily! We've done nothing wrong!"

Their pleas tumbled over one another, frantic and breathless. For a moment, Jeremiah simply stared with a cold, detached gaze. He heard the desperate appeals as little more than noise. His mind was already racing ahead to Pepperhof, to the preparations that needed to be made now that the rebels' position had been all but confirmed. He doubted he’d convince the generals to march the army toward the forest and find a more favorable place to fight, but he might prod the Count into defending the town’s eastern flank better. Setting up artillery properly took time, and he had earned at least a few hours.

Like so much else in this region, the caravan was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

"Enough," he said, cutting through the clamor. "Finish them off."

The merchants fell silent as their hope collapsed into horror. Jeremiah didn't look away from the leader as the realization set in. The man staggered back a step, his eyes wide and mouth trembling as if to speak, but no words came out.

Jeremiah's hand was already moving. With a single thrust, his rapier pierced through his chest, skewering him in one clean motion. The merchant's eyes went glassy as his body crumpled, and Jeremiah pulled the blade free, flicking blood from its edge before sliding it back into its sheath.

His men sprang into action, unhesitatingly following their leader's command. The merchants screamed and scrambled, but there was nowhere to run. Within moments, the soldiers closed in, their blades doing their grim work.

Jeremiah strode to the nearest cart, giving its contents a cursory inspection. There was nothing particularly valuable—cloth, some dried meats, a few barrels of grain—but it was better than nothing. He gestured toward the supplies, his voice sharp. "Load up what we can carry and burn the rest. We need to move."

His men obeyed without question, hurrying to secure whatever they could salvage. Jeremiah took a moment to choose his new mount and ran a soothing hand down the horse's neck. It was a decent animal, not as sturdy as those lost in the skirmish, but it'd do the job.

At least he could still cut his losses in a night of setbacks and miscalculations.

As the last of the merchants' possessions went up in flames, he climbed back into the saddle and took stock of his men. Many were weary, injured, and fewer in number than when they had first set out, but the majority were still alive and capable. That would have to be enough for now.

"Form up!" Jeremiah ordered, his voice carrying over the crackle of the burning carts. "We're heading back to Pepperhof. No more distractions."

The soldiers gathered quickly, knowing better than to defy him. Jeremiah took one last glance back at the smoke rising above the treetops, a faint sneer curling his lips.

This had been a setback but nothing more. He had what he needed. As for the caravan… well, there were always casualties in war.

With a nudge of his heels, Jeremiah urged his horse into motion, leading his men back down the dark road toward Pepperhof.

Chapter 125 - Bring a Gun to a Knife Fight - Leonard 41

Containing the forest fire had been a matter of a few hours’ work for the nearest patrols. Alchemical explosions were dangerous enough to melt through stone and burn a whole forest to the ground if allowed to grow, but a hallowed place like the Darkwood was not without its defenses.

Leonard hadn’t been particularly worried about the forest. If something genuinely threatening happened, Nemas would intervene long before he did.

What he had been worried about was how Oliver would react to his first real defeat.

Yes, the kid had managed to send the loyalists running and had even protected his closest comrades from the worst of the fire. But he didn’t have the immense reserves necessary to maintain his barriers forever, and certainly not far enough to protect everyone.

When Leonard arrived, a nearby water mage had already put the green flames to rest, aided by an old orc shaman who was currently examining the damage done to the trees. He was also treated to the sight of a row of burned bodies and of his squire weeping over one of them.

A quick look told him that the majority was loyalist soldiers, and he immediately removed them from his attention. He did not need further information.

Leonard took a few steps hesitantly, despite resurrection being a time-sensitive miracle. The longer he waited, the more chances there were for the dead souls to be gone from his grasp. And yet, something within that had long since given up on himself told him he shouldn’t allow Oliver to treat death as an inconvenience, as he did.

The boy had talent. That was irrefutable. Without Leonard’s teachings, he might have still been a Journeyman, but even that was quite an accomplishment. Objectively, Leonard could see Oliver reach Master within a few years if the campaign continued at the same intensity. Champion would be far away, but the kid could get there.

He did not have what it takes to shed mortality.

That knowledge held him back for a few seconds longer. It made him seriously consider stepping back and allowing nature to continue unimpeded, teaching Oliver a valuable lesson. It would preserve something precious at the cost of the boy’s affection and naivety.

Logic reasserted itself soon enough, and he closed the distance until he could place a warm hand on his kid’s shoulder.

Leonard’s grip was firm but gentle as he shook Oliver, pulling him away from the charred body. “Come on, kid,” he murmured, his voice low and steady. “I’m here.”

Oliver startled, wide-eyed and unfocused as he jerked upright, scrabbling to his feet. His gaze darted frantically over the burned clearing before locking onto Leonard’s face. Recognition flashed, and with it came a desperate, clinging hope. “Sir Leonard!” he gasped, his voice breaking. “You can bring them back, right? You can resurrect them. Please—”

Leonard’s expression softened, and he gave a reassuring nod. “Step aside,” he said, his tone gentle but firm. “I’ll take care of it.”

Oliver hesitated, his hands twitching at his sides as though he wasn’t quite ready to let go. But then he took a few shaky steps back, taking ragged gulps of air as he watched Leonard kneel beside the bodies.

Drawing a deep breath, Leonard reached within himself, descending into the infinite well of power that he carried within his soul. He felt the familiar caress of the Light rising to greet him, coiling around his thoughts and stretching under his skin like a mantle. His mind pushed outward, piercing through the layers of reality until the faint glimmers of the souls began to emerge—wisps of a thousand colors, shimmering at the very edge of perception.

They were still close, lingering near their ruined bodies, too newly dead to have moved on. Strong souls took longer to let go of their earthly remains—sometimes, they never did. But that was another set of problems. Leonard observed the threads of their existence for any excessive corruption, but the tenuous bonds still connecting them to the world were pure.

He reached out, casting [True Resurrection] with ease that could only come to one such as him. His power surged forward, snaking out to grasp the spirits, drawing them back from the edges of the shadowed realm.

But he didn’t tie them to their bodies just yet. First, he scoured them clean, washing away the taint of death and unraveling the trauma that had embedded itself in their souls. He could feel the lingering pain of the fire, the terror of those final moments, and with a gentle touch, he smoothed it away, leaving behind only the essence of who they had been. His skill was such by now that they would only forget the last few minutes.

The bodies below him shifted, their charred flesh knitting together and becoming smooth while color returned to pallid cheeks. Within moments, three young warriors and a witch were whole again, the light of life rekindling in their eyes as they gasped for air and sat up. Leonard exhaled slowly, releasing the power and allowing it to settle back into his veins. The world around him came rushing back, sharp and clear.

Oliver was already moving, closing the distance in a heartbeat. He practically fell onto the nearest of his revived friends, wrapping them in a tight embrace as a sob escaped his throat. The others joined in soon after, their relief pouring out in a cacophony of joyous cries and tearful laughter. The squad clustered together, a tangle of limbs and emotion, their voices rising to celebrate the impossible miracle.

Leonard watched them for a moment, a quiet satisfaction settling over him though his expression remained inscrutable. He took a step back, letting the boy have his moment. He’d have time to learn.

A runner approached from the edge of the clearing, his boots crunching over the ash-strewn ground. “Sir,” he said breathlessly, bowing his head as he came to a stop. “The preparations are ready. We can move forward with the next step.”

Leonard inclined his head, his gaze flickering back to the young paladin and his friends. “We march at dawn,” he replied.

First light saw the Revolutionary Army emerge from the Darkwood like a swarm of ants. In lockstep, they marched along the road, sending what little wildlife remained within the abandoned wheat fields running. They wound their way down the road like a great serpent, the ranks of soldiers moving in disciplined rhythm. Fifteen thousand strong, their banners snapping in the wind, they advanced steadily across the bleak, empty lands.

At the helm, Leonard passively observed the horizon. The scouts reported that all the closest hamlets were empty, and they didn’t expect to find resistance until they got closer to Pepperhof, though given the subterfuge of the previous night, he wasn’t inclined to lower his guard.

“It is a pity that Oliver didn’t manage to earn his knighthood, but he’ll have other chances,” Amelia murmured as she led her horse until it plodded next to his.

For once, Leonard didn’t favor his friend with a smile.

She was too canny to wheedle him now, having learned to read his moods, so she let the silence linger. Between two such as them, there was often no need for words, and while Leonard would have liked to reprimand her—she had to know, had to have been observing, for all that he found no traces of her shadows when he got there— he knew she could turn the same argument to him.

He had allowed Oliver to go, knowing full well that his opponent was more experienced and canny enough to prepare for anything if he was willing to risk entering the Darkwood.

But while Leonard couldn’t rightfully criticize her for making the same choice he had, that being allowing Oliver to face terrible defeat to learn the pain of a loss in a controlled environment, he still wouldn’t allow her to brush it off.

Luckily, Amelia was smart enough to refrain from prodding a sore spot. She’d come back to it, as was her won’t, but hopefully enough time would have passed by then that Leonard wouldn’t feel as he did currently.

Their silent spat was interrupted by one of the scouts coming to give his report. Since dawn, they echoed the same message: the hamlets were deserted, their cottages standing like hollowed-out bones left behind by retreating scavengers. But signs of recent habitation remained—fire pits still warm, and the scattered hoofprints of a few dozen horses leading away from the abandoned houses. Loyalist scouting parties had used the villages as a temporary camp only hours before.

The road narrowed as they passed through a stretch of untended woodland, the dense underbrush thinning as they emerged into the fields that marked the outskirts of Pepperhof’s domain. Here and there, villagers peeked out from the cracked shutters of their homes, eyes wide and fearful as the army tramped past. The scouts had already deemed these people harmless, and Leonard was inclined to agree. These were not men who would raise arms against a marching army. Still, he had Amelia keep a few shadows at the back should any saboteur be hiding among them.

As the sun climbed higher, reaching its zenith, Leonard caught the first glimmer of metal in the distance. He raised a fist, signaling for the army to halt. The command rippled back through the ranks, and with well-practiced efficiency, the soldiers stopped, their boots thudding into the earth in unison. They spread out, beginning to unload the artillery from the carts while mages went through the incantations that would strengthen their moving wards and protect the troops from wide-area hexes. Those, apparently, were a favorite of the Count and had allowed him to limit his losses against the orcs.

Leonard advanced a while longer and stopped at the crest of a low hill, his eyes narrowing as he surveyed the Loyalist host arrayed before the gates of Pepperhof. Even from this distance, he could hear the rumble of activity drifting over the fields. Count Pollus had assembled his forces well—twenty thousand men at least, more than the recent estimates suggested. The bulk of the enemy army stood clustered around the central formation, disciplined soldiers from Hassel’s main garrison. But the flanks told a different story: lines of recruits still awkward in their armor, their ranks uneven.

Green soldiers, Leonard noted with a faint, grim smile. Those would break quickly if pressure was applied.

He gestured to the closest orc commander to join him. “Your warriors will hold the southern flank, closest to the river. The ground there is uneven, but that should work to your advantage. Break the line, and we’ll fold the center like a wet tissue.”

The orc bared his teeth in a feral grin, nodding once. “Finally,” he growled. “We will crush them.”

Leonard gave a curt nod. It was the most dangerous position on the battlefield—backed up against the river, with little room for retreat. But the orc warriors had asked for nothing less. Their ferocity would make up for any tactical and numerical disadvantage.

As the orcs began peeling off, the Loyalist artillery rumbled to life. A few volleys of cannon fire tore through the air, accompanied by spells that lengthened their arc and promised an increased payload. The projectiles hurtled toward the Revolutionary lines, but the mages were ready. Barriers shimmered into existence, blue and silver shields stretching across the sky, absorbing the impact before the shots could reach their targets. The air trembled as spells collided, bursts of light cascading in the wake of the halted attack.

Leonard remained still, watching the enemy ranks for any signs of movement. The Count would soon test his forces and probe for weaknesses in his lines. That first push would be crucial—if he could break their momentum, then the rest would be manageable without requiring his hand.

His gaze drifted to the southern flank, where the orcs now stood at the ready, war hammers and axes held loose in muscled hands, their eyes alight with anticipation.

A low growl rumbled from their ranks, the sound carrying over the fields as the tension built. Leonard allowed himself a thin smile.

He signaled for his officers to ready their troops.

Chapter 126 - Can't Hide No More - Leonard 42

Battles, especially battles between two armies that couldn't maneuver too much, were slow things. Leonard knew this well by now, having participated in his fair share, but nothing prepared him for the sheer boredom of waiting while his men deployed across the field.

He hadn't even gotten to cast his buffs. [Halo of the Righteous] scaled up with the individual target's strength, and using it now would likely lead to an immediate rout of the enemy. And while Leonard wanted to win, he had decided with Amelia long ago that he wouldn't put his weight on the scale unless it was absolutely necessary.

It's not that essential by now. At the beginning, sure. That ragtag army couldn't have conquered Thelma without my help, much less Treon. But now we are a serious force, and the men need a victory they can call their own to start advancing to the upper ranks.

It was a pity that he couldn't simply continue buffing his army as they collected victories and end up with ten thousand Masters, but that was the way things worked.

Leonard watched the soldiers finish their preparations with a distant gaze, his thoughts drifting to the limitations he had imposed on himself. If he truly wanted to, he could unleash his power and turn the tide of battle in a single, overwhelming strike. But doing so would undermine everything he'd built so far.

His presence on the battlefield had to be restrained and kept in check unless circumstances took a dire turn. Otherwise, his soldiers would forever remain reliant on his intervention, and the army would never become a force capable of surviving without him. Sometimes, he regretted having personally dealt with General Locke. The man would have been a menace if left unchecked, but he was confident his commanders could have found a way to deal with him, which would have allowed them to grow even more.

Still, what was done was done. He just needed to prevent similar mistakes, as he wouldn't always have the luxury of sitting back. Once the kingdom's elite forces took the field, things would change.

I'm still hoping that the Whiteguard remains neutral. Or at least that they only send a token force. It would be a shitty repayment to have to kill the people who helped me when I most needed it, even if I'd resurrect them after.

The Revolutionary Army advanced steadily, a wave of bodies and steel crashing forward even as the first signs of resistance finally emerged. A series of sudden, thunderous explosions erupted across the front lines—conflagrations bursting up from the ground in a violent surge of fire and earth that obscured Pepperhof from sight.

The defenders had used their time wisely, planting mines along their approach. Yet the damage was limited; shimmering shields sprang up just in time as the revolutionary mages once again anticipated the attempt. The barriers absorbed the worst of the blasts, leaving little more than scorch marks and scattered debris behind.

The orcs, however, had raced ahead, eager to reach the fray. They bore the brunt of the explosions, suffering more casualties than the main force. But it was as though they didn't notice or simply didn't care. For every warrior that fell, another two rushed forward to take their place. Their ferocity carried them swiftly over the uneven terrain and through the fire, closing the distance with terrifying speed. They slammed into the southern flank of the Loyalist line like an avalanche, a mass of muscle and enchanted bone armor that shattered the first ranks and tore through the inexperienced soldiers with ruthless efficiency.

The impact was brutal, and the Loyalists crumpled under the orcish onslaught. Still untested in battle, the fresh recruits broke almost immediately as the shock troops carved their way forward, axes and hammers rising and falling in gruesome rhythm. Even a good mile away, Leonard could see limbs and heads flying, blood splattering the earth in broad, wet arcs. The orcs' war cries drowned out the Loyalists' panicked shouts, their advance unrelenting as they drove deeper into the enemy's formation.

Despite the macabrely captivating sight, Leonard kept his attention fixed on the battlefield as a whole, his mind automatically parsing the chaos into manageable segments. His mages were holding well under the fire, shielding the soldiers from the worst of the spells and cannon fire being flung their way, though the occasional hit managed to get through.

The artillery had begun to respond in measured volleys, beams of explosive magic arcing through the sky and slamming into the Loyalist ranks with resounding force. They did not benefit from protective enchantments beyond what they could cast on their own, as most mages were clustered in the back, preparing something from the slowly increasing mana.

Meanwhile, his officers moved to shore up the line wherever the pressure grew too intense, guiding the flow of the battle to prevent any one place from advancing excessively.

Despite all the minor victories, the loyalists still maintained their lines, showing that they weren't all talk. With the greenhorns shuttled to the south to absorb the orcish advance, the veterans were able to fight on equal footing with the revolutionaries, even with their lack of successful magical barrages. All in all, it was a pretty standard battle, as far as Leonard could remember from his perusal of history books.

It might seem like a disappointment, but I'm actually quite happy. In less than six months, I built up an army capable of fighting with the veteran corps of the Southern Army.

Amelia appeared at his side, watching the battle unfold. "Have you given any more thought to my proposal?" she eventually asked, smooth as always, though a hint of sharpness lingered beneath the surface from their previous argument. "If we strike now and take Pollus out of the equation, the rest of the army will crumble. It would be a swift victory, and we could surprise Hassel before they can turtle up for a siege. We wouldn’t need to hasten Oz’s work.”

Leonard's gaze did not waver from the battlefield. "We've discussed this," he replied, his voice calm and measured. "Pollus might have tricks we haven't seen yet. He is a powerful fighter on his own, and he knows better than to be undefended during a battle this important. Besides, scattering the loyalist forces would slow us down more than it would help. We'd have to waste time chasing individual groups instead of focusing on a single target."

Amelia's lips curved into a small, understanding smile, though Leonard could sense the dissatisfaction behind it. "Very well," she said gracefully. "We'll do it your way."

She was always gracious in her acceptance, but Leonard knew she was only deferring because it was him—anyone else would have been convinced, whether by word or might. He could feel the weight of her gaze, assessing and searching for any sign that he might waver in his decision. But he stood firm. The army needed this. They needed to fight this battle on their own terms and win by their own strength without him tipping the scales. Only then would they complete their growth into the force he envisioned.

His focus returned to the field as the battle reached a fever pitch. The orcs had punched through the southern flank, carving a wide gap in the enemy's defenses, and were now driving the recruits back toward the gates of Pepperhof. The central lines were holding, but just barely, as the pressure mounted and casualties rose while the revolutionaries seemed able to shrug off anything. Here and there, groups of more experienced loyalist soldiers rallied, forming tight defensive circles to fend off the rebel troops and earning small victories, but even those were beginning to falter as the orcs' momentum bled over into the rest of the battle.

Amidst the chaos, Leonard's attention was drawn to a flash of bright blue steel cutting through the haze of dust and smoke. A tall, broad-shouldered knight in burnished armor rallied his troops and quickly gained momentum. Amelia's hum of surprise confirmed the man's identity even before she spoke.

"Commander Fervent," she murmured. "I remember him cutting down a Scourge with his corp. I thought he had retired after the Incursion. He must be close to a hundred."

As if stirred by the man's mere presence, the surrounding loyalists tightened their formation and followed his lead. He raised his sword, which caught the scattered sunlight, and drove it down in a sweeping arc, sending an arc of energy against the closest magical barrier, where it had cracked from a particularly effective cannon strike.

The shield broke, and the group surged forward like a spear, piercing the heart of the rebel line. Fervent led the way, cutting a bloody swath through anyone who dared to stand before him. His sword danced and slashed, carving through flesh and armor. For a heartbeat, the battle shifted—the loyalists surged with him, and the rebel line wavered.

This was the danger of any battle, where even a single man's valor could rally the hopeless. Fervent was turning the tide in his favor, albeit slowly, and the Revolutionary Army could not afford to lose its momentum here. Just as Leonard was about to signal a response to his reserves, a blur of movement caught his eye.

Neer hurtled forward to meet the challenge head-on. Her hulking form crashed through the melee from where she had been fighting on the northern side, clearing a path to Fervent with raw, relentless force. Her cleaver swung in vicious arcs, crushing armor and bone alike, as she reached the tip of the wedge and brought her weapon down to meet the commander's blade.

The clash resonated across the field, causing a shockwave and momentarily halting the advance. The battle seemed to contract around them, the chaos narrowing into a single, brutal contest.

Their duel lasted no longer than a few minutes, but every second stretched out as though time itself was holding its breath. Neer swung with incredible power, showing an ever-increasing mastery of enhancement spells, her strikes seeking to break through the commander's guard in one blow, while Fervent moved with grace, parrying and countering without a wasted movement.

Yet, the longer the duel continued, the more evident it became that Neer was driving the old commander back.

With every thunderous strike, Fervent's defense weakened, and his movements slowed as exhaustion took its toll. Then, with an overhead blow, Neer's blood-red cleaver slammed down on Fervent's sword, snapping the blade in two as if it were made of glass.

The old knight stumbled, his eyes widening in shock, but he had no time to react further. Neer's next strike swept across in a brutal arc, and Fervent’s head was severed from his shoulders. The body crumpled, lifeless, and for a heartbeat, the battlefield fell silent.

Then, as if released from a spell, the rebels surged forward with a vengeance, collapsing on the loyalist wedge from all sides. Without their leader, the formation fell apart almost instantly, and the revolutionaries poured in, slaughtering the remaining soldiers who had followed Fervent's desperate charge. The gap that had momentarily threatened to turn the tide was sealed, and with it, any hope the loyalists had of mounting a breakthrough.

Leonard allowed himself a smile, but the feeling was short-lived. There was a mounting pressure behind the gates of Pepperhof, a concentration of mana so intense it was almost visible to the naked eye. The mages were up to something—and then, like a thunderclap, it happened.

A single, colossal spell took shape above the battlefield. Mana crackled and condensed, forming the shape of a serpentine beast, its scales shimmering like molten glass and its eyes burning with a searing inner light. Leonard recognized it all too well.

[The Wyrm of Devastation] was a fifth-tier spell that was considered the Southern Army's trump card and that they used only in the most dire circumstances.

The spectral wyrm roared, shaking the air, and began its descent. It tore through the sky with its maw open wide as it flew toward the rebel ranks. The mages' shields thickened in anticipation, bracing for the impact, but Leonard could sense the sheer force behind the wyrm's charge. The spell was potent enough to shatter even the most robust defenses they could manage.

This was the kind of threat he had hoped to avoid, the kind that could turn a solid victory into a catastrophe. As the wyrm hurtled toward the shields, its form growing larger and more vivid with every second, Leonard's hand tightened around the hilt of his sword.

“Allow me.” Amelia murmured.

Chapter 127 - Behold the Horror - Jeremiah 4

From atop Pepperhof's walls, Jeremiah watched as the Southern Army's trump card was unleashed upon the rebels.

He prided himself on being a rational man, but even he could admit to being awed at the sheer display of power.

The gigantic wyrm hovered above the armies for a few moments, giving everyone the time to understand what a great work of magic it was before it roared so loud that the stone trembled under his feet. Then it began its descent.

"And so it ends." General Morrison said dispassionately. The man's cousin had just been killed in a highly visible duel with an orc warrior, but he seemed entirely unmoved.

"I'm afraid it won't be that simple, " the robed man who had organized and led the ritual answered, and Jeremiah privately agreed. Everything he knew told him their trap should devastate the enemy force, but deep down, he didn't quite trust it himself.

And if the Soaring Dragon is unsure, I wouldn't be surprised if they managed to survive this unscathed somehow. The bastard’s secretive, but he has forgotten more about magic than most Tower Masters know.

As the Wyrm of Devastation plummeted toward the rebel lines, the sky seemed to darken in its wake, the sheer mass of the construct blotting out the sun. Jeremiah leaned forward, his knuckles white as he gripped the stone parapet, his pulse quickening in anticipation. It would be over soon, he told himself. The revolutionaries might have momentum, grit, and even some highly skilled commanders, but no one stood a chance against magic of this magnitude. It had been enough to eradicate the worst barbarian attack of the last century; it would be enough for these ragtag rebels.

The air crackled with raw energy as the wyrm's colossal form pierced the layers of magical shields the rebels had hastily erected. One after another, the barriers shimmered and shattered like glass, the wyrm's descent seemingly unstoppable. Each time it broke through another layer, the tension among the loyalists eased just a little more. It was as though each barrier represented one last gasp of the rebels' defiance, and each time, it failed to halt the inevitable.

Then, without warning, the world went dark.

It happened so suddenly that Jeremiah's breath hitched in his throat. One moment, the battlefield was ablaze with the radiant light of shattering shields; the next, it was as though night had fallen. All around him, shouts of confusion and alarm erupted from the assembled commanders. "What is this?" General Morrison demanded, his tone finally cracking with the first hints of unease even as he called upon a flame on his palm to see.

Jeremiah felt a cold dread coil in his gut. He wasn't sure what had caused the darkness, but he could feel the magic twisting around him—a deep, oppressive sensation that seemed to leech warmth from the air. It was as though the shadows themselves had come to life and were tightening their grip around the world.

The hooded mage, standing near the back of the wall, let out a sigh and took on a tone of resignation. "Prepare yourselves," he said, already beginning to weave protective spells around the gathered officers. Sigils flared and danced around them, warding off whatever curse might befall them. "I fear the Mistress of Shadows has taken the field."

The words sent a shiver down Jeremiah's spine. Lady Amelia Barks' reputation was one whispered in both fear and reverence, a name that conjured images of sorcery so dark that it was said to bend the fabric of reality itself. Spirit summoning was esoteric at the best of times, and she was known to have taken it further than any before her.

Slowly, the darkness began to recede. At first, it was just a thin sliver of sunlight piercing through the gloom, but soon enough, the battlefield came back into view, the murk lifting as though a veil had been torn away. The shouts died down, and a stunned hush fell over the commanders as the truth revealed itself above their heads.

The Wyrm of Devastation was still there, but it was no longer the majestic construct that had been summoned to crush the rebels. Its once-imposing form was riddled with gaping wounds, and entire sections of its serpentine body were torn away, revealing a hollow interior of fractured mana. A dark speck circled around it with terrible grace, trailing shadows that seemed to drink in the light. It didn't take long for Jeremiah to realize that the speck was her.

Amelia moved like a streak of black lightning, darting through the air as the wyrm lashed out with desperate fury. Each time it tried to catch her with its razor-edged winds, the shadows she commanded surged forth, intercepting the blows and allowing nothing to spill over the petrified armies. She responded with beams of darkness that dimmed the sun, each striking the wyrm with the force of a thunderbolt, ripping through its armor of whirling air and scattering fragments of its essence across the sky.

The wyrm roared again, but this time, it was a cry of agony rather than dominance. It twisted and thrashed, trying to maintain cohesion, but each of Amelia's strikes sent cracks rippling along its body, unraveling the woven magic with every impact. The creature's attacks grew weaker and more frantic, as if it understood its own impending doom.

Jeremiah's hands clenched as he watched the wyrm begin to lose altitude, its form shrinking as it bled mana like a wounded beast. It lashed out one final time, a desperate swing that used its whole body aimed directly at Amelia and caused a gust so strong it would have annihilated stout city walls. Still, she simply raised her hand, and the shadows gathered into a barrier dense enough that the wyrm's strike shattered against it. Then, she gathered the shadows and compressed them into a beam of utter darkness that struck its center. The spell construct shuddered, fractured, and collapsed in on itself, dissolving into wisps of dissipating magic.

A heavy gloom settled over the battlefield, broken only by the roars of the advancing orcs and the murmur of bewildered soldiers. The mighty spell that should have decided the battle was gone, snuffed out like a candle in a storm.

Jeremiah tore his gaze away from the sky, feeling cold. A voice jolted him out of his thoughts, calm and steady despite the absurd sight they had just witnessed.

"We must retreat," said the hooded mage, brooking no argument as he turned to Count Pollus. "Nothing left in our arsenal can stand up to power of that level, and Weiss hasn't even shown his face yet. We will be annihilated if we persist."

For a moment, Pollus seemed to struggle with the words, his face reddening as if he was about to refute the suggestion. Jeremiah knew he was considering taking the matter into his hands. But then he looked out over the battlefield, and the defiance drained from his expression. Slowly, he nodded.

"Sound the retreat," Pollus ordered, his voice low and heavy. "We will abandon Pepperhof and make for Hassel. Nowhere else can shield us."

Jeremiah swallowed hard. There was no shame in it, he told himself. Even the best-laid plans could go awry. But as the horns began to blow and the loyalist soldiers started to fall back, he couldn't shake the image of that dark figure, tearing apart the pride of their magic with a wave of her hand.

The retreat unfolded like a collapsing dam, with soldiers streaming through the gates and into the narrow streets of Pepperhof. Jeremiah and Count Pollus moved quickly, weaving through the chaotic throng of men and officers as horns blared.

Jeremiah's voice cut through the clamor as he shouted orders to the captains, trying to maintain some semblance of discipline. "Keep the ranks tight! Don't let them scatter!" His commands were met with strained nods as the soldiers funneled past him, the fear evident in their eyes. He glanced toward the Count, whose stern expression showed no trace of uncertainty. Pollus' jaw was set, his voice carrying the unyielding authority of a man who understood that hesitation now would mean death for all.

But even as they organized the retreat, a different kind of desperation took hold. Civilians surged from the alleyways and shops, their faces pale with terror as they saw the army pulling away from the town. A woman clutched a child to her chest, her voice raw from screaming. "You can't leave us here!" she cried, her words nearly lost in the cacophony. "Please, we're loyal to the king! You have to protect us!"

Jeremiah allowed their pleas to wash over him. "Move them back!" he ordered the soldiers closest to the civilians. "Keep the path clear!"

The troops obeyed, pushing the desperate townspeople away from the gates and back toward the cobbled streets they called home. It was as though they were casting away flotsam to escape a sinking ship. Jeremiah watched as a man fell to his knees, clutching his head in despair, while an old merchant clung to a soldier's cloak, begging to be taken with them. The cloak was torn away, and the merchant stumbled back, his eyes hollow with disbelief.

Jeremiah forced himself to look away. There were thousands still in Pepperhof—innocents who would be left at the mercy of the rebels. Yet, as he pushed through the crowd, he reminded himself that Leonard Weiss hadn't proven himself overly cruel, and his hold on the rebellious territories had been tempered with pragmatism, not slaughter. As long as they retook the land swiftly, perhaps no great harm would come to these people. It was a cold calculus, but mercy had to be measured against survival in times of war.

"General Morrison!" Pollus' voice rang out, his command snapping the man's attention away from a desperate captain who had just finished recounting their casualty numbers. "You will direct the rearguard."

Jeremiah saw the color drain from Morrison's face, leaving him even paler than usual. The general opened his mouth as though to argue but then simply nodded, his hand moving reflexively to rest on the hilt of his sword. "It will be done, my lord," he said steadily, though his eyes betrayed the fear he could not entirely suppress. He did not beg or falter, nor did he curse the order. Instead, he turned on his heel and marched off to fulfill his final duty.

For a moment, a flicker of respect stirred within Jeremiah. He had never thought much of Morrison, a man more accustomed to politics than war, but there was a kind of bravery in accepting a hopeless command without complaint. It was not the fearlessness of a hero; it was the grim resolve of a man who had weighed his choices and found none but death.

Meanwhile, the hooded mage had gathered the remaining sorcerers, their hands raised toward the sky or pressed to the earth as they began layering enchantments over the city. The air thrummed with mana as one spell after another was set into motion, warding off the enemy's advance with barriers of flame, conjured chasms, and shifting fogs that would slow anyone who tried to pursue. Jeremiah could feel the magic settling over Pepperhof like a shroud. The streets would be burned, the walls toppled, and the bridges would collapse. A final defiance to ensure the rebels paid dearly for what they took.

Jeremiah's gaze lingered on the scene for a moment, but he could not bear to watch as the mages shaped Pepperhof's death. He knew that the rebels would eventually break through even with all the enchantments and deterrents in place. They had momentum, and now the Mistress of Shadows herself was leading them. The thought made his stomach tighten with dread, and he turned away, following the Count as they pressed on further from the town.

They marched hard, leaving behind the cries, chaos, and fear. Jeremiah steeled himself by contemplating the next steps. The eastern corps had to hold until they reached Hassel. If Volten fell before a week had passed, they would be caught in a trap, pinned between Leonard Weiss' forces and the rebels sweeping in from the east. It was a gamble—trusting Baron Langley and Luxfield, or even Count Volten, though the fat wizard was unlikely to act unless his town fell—but it was the only play left.

Jeremiah clenched his jaw, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. Only by rallying Hassel's full strength could they hope to turn this tide, crush the rebellion, and reclaim the lands that had slipped from their grasp.

Chapter 128 - Open your Fronts - Gareth 2

The hard march through the forest reminded Gareth of old times. Of course, back then, he had merely needed to cross a hundred miles of open fields, not the Darkwood. However, he was much stronger now, and the orcs knew the best paths. Indeed, it had taken them only a couple of days to traverse the entire forest with five Corps, despite it being known to take at least a week for a regular army.

Some of it could be attributed to the Revolutionary Army's better equipment and training than Hetnia’s regular forces, but mostly, it was thanks to the Guardian's intervention.

She hadn’t shown her face, but Gareth knew she was behind their unnatural speed. Even Elder Wei, cranky old orc that she was, seemed surprised they had made it so quickly.

Gareth led the five army corps out of the northeastern reaches in a neat column, his horse’s hooves crunching over fallen leaves and tangled roots. The forest had swallowed them for days, its ancient canopy making it hard to see anything beyond, but now, as the trees thinned, the horizon opened before them. The distant gleam of the sea shimmered like a promise, along with the sight of Hetnia’s eastern prairie.

Soon enough, they left the forest’s passages behind and got on the road that would lead them to Volten. The horses certainly seemed to appreciate the smoother gait, though they were bred for any environment.

The further they marched, the more unmistakable the signs of conflict became. They passed through charred hovels, scorched fields, and remnants of the many villages that had once dotted the eastern landscape. Broken carts lay in the dirt, their wheels shattered and blackened by flame. Gareth’s gaze swept over the deserted road, taking in the remains of stone hearths and empty wells. The air was clean, telling him it had been some time, and there were no bodies—only silence.

Lady Amelia’s reports had mentioned the destruction of all settlements that didn’t immediately bend to the royal army in passing, but seeing it firsthand left a bitter taste in his mouth. She had called the east a “theater of desperation,” with fires sweeping through towns as local forces clashed with the rebel armies. The sight of the devastation matched her words too well. Yet Gareth pushed forward, knowing that slowing down here would only spook his men. Their real task lay ahead.

When Volten’s walls finally came into view, it was like beholding the spine of a sleeping giant. The city was the third largest in Hetnia, and its walls reflected that—massive, ancient, and formidable. The stone ramparts rose high above the flatlands, layered with wards that shimmered visibly even in daylight. Their activation could only mean that the soldiers assembled by Lady Amelia had managed to put it under siege.

Volten was a trade city where ships that crossed the Green Sea unloaded their goods, and caravans carried those goods to Hassel and beyond. They would not impose the wards upon their citizenry—people who lived and breathed trade—unless it was absolutely necessary.

Once they got close enough to pick out the details, Gareth saw that, as expected, the siege was well underway. Across the fields, where crops once grew, war engines dotted the landscape like iron-toothed beasts, their hulking forms aimed squarely at Volten’s walls. The air shook with the thunder of magical cannons, each shot slamming into the shimmering wards with bursts of multicolored light. The protective barriers held, but each impact sent ripples across the surface like stones skipping across a pond, requiring mana to stabilize. Smoke drifted above the city, mingling with the salt tang of the sea, and the distant cries of soldiers carried on the wind.

That is significantly beyond what I expected to find. I knew they had managed to conquer a few crucial towns, which obviously means they managed to get their hands on cannons and the like, but this doesn’t look like a ragtag force. If anything, I’d say they managed to build up supply lines of some sort, but I know for a fact only the bare minimum is coming from the south. Last I heard, they were still working to purify the southeastern coast from the Void’s taint.

Gareth shook his head and urged his horse forward, taking the lead. While he had learned to appreciate Elder Wei, he didn’t think the local rebels would react well to an approaching horde of orcs, or at least what looked like one.

The encampment sprawled across the fields as a vast assemblage of tents, newly made banners, forges, and cooking fires. It seemed to Gareth that what had once been a messy group of desperate fighters, formed during Lady Amelia’s earliest days here, had somehow become a disciplined force. There were proper supply depots, structured divisions given the distinct colors each side of the encampment sported, and even a decent armory. Gareth’s ascent to Mastery meant he could pick out the smallest details from miles away.

He had expected the situation to improve since the last reports trickled in, carried by Amelia’s shadow informants, but the scale of their preparation still took him aback. This was no mere band of insurgents—it was barely lesser than the main revolutionary army. Gareth expected to find a few things that couldn’t be remediated by a competent commander, like the lack of mages, but it seemed he wouldn’t need to waste much time organizing the army. Why, he might be able to take over the siege operations and continue as if he had always been here!

Well, Lady Amelia’s reports make it clear that the local General, Oz, is competent and probably responsible for organizing underground resistance to the local nobility for decades, so he might not appreciate me taking over. I hope I won’t have to remove him. If he’s responsible for all of this, he’d be an asset to the revolution as a whole.

As Gareth’s Corps approached, a group of scouts broke away from the outskirts of the camp, galloping across the open ground. They hailed the arriving soldiers with raised hands and shouted greetings, swiftly closing the distance. Gareth watched them come, his brow furrowing in curiosity. These men didn’t seem particularly alarmed by the appearance of a small army at their back, suggesting they had known exactly when to expect him.

Before he could call out a greeting, a shadow peeled away from the foremost scout. The darkness coiled and took shape, forming into a fat, childlike elemental—a familiar emissary of Amelia’s will.

“General Doomspear, welcome to the eastern front,” it intoned, its eyes like pools of black flame. “General Oz invites you to the command post while your men make camp.” The words echoed unnaturally before the elemental dispersed in a wisp of smoke, leaving Gareth and the scouts facing one another in the aftermath.

Gareth took a breath, steadying the flood of thoughts racing through his mind. He was not one for excessive theatrics, but Amelia had always had a flair for the dramatic. Even so, he felt a prick of anticipation at the prospect of meeting this Oz in person.

Turning back to his officers and Elder Wei, Gareth issued a series of orders. “Set up camp here,” he said, “Make sure the men are rested and ready for tomorrow. I don’t have a timeline at the moment, but I expect we’ll move out within twenty-four hours if nothing changes.” The men saluted and began relaying his commands, directing the soldiers to a patch of open ground where they could set up their tents and supply wagons while the old orc simply grunted in acknowledgment.

Gareth glanced once more at the city in the distance, then toward the camp that had sprung up to challenge it. With a firm grip on the reins, he nudged his horse forward and made for the command post, eager to see how ready they truly were to break the city’s wards.

The camp bustled with activity as he rode through. Soldiers scurried about, unloading supplies, mending equipment, and tending to the wounded while officers barked orders. The energy was palpable, the kind that only came before a major offensive. As Gareth drew closer to the command post—a broad, fortified tent set at the heart of the encampment—another shadow materialized, emerging from the base of a nearby standard like a serpent from its burrow.

This one was different from the first: taller and leaner, its dark shape solid like dark steel. It glided up to him and dipped its head in a mimicry of a bow. “General Doomspear,” it murmured, “your arrival is appreciated. Enter and meet the commanders.”

Gareth dismounted and handed the reins to a nearby attendant before stepping inside the tent, followed by the elemental. Maps cluttered the large central table, weighted down with daggers and goblets. Three people awaited him.

The first was unmistakably General Oz. He wore his years in the deep lines of his face and the iron grey of his hair, but his eyes burned with intelligence. His left hand rested on the pommel of a well-worn sword while his right gestured Gareth closer with a pleased smile.

Beside him stood a dour young man, his black hair cropped short and his expression set in a near-permanent scowl. A patch covered his left eye, and a thin scar curved down from his cheekbone to his jaw, evidence of an old wound that had not healed cleanly. It was probably cursed or inflicted by the Void if it hadn’t been healed. He regarded Gareth with open calculation.

It was the third figure that truly caught Gareth’s attention, however. She was an elf—tall and elegant, with fine features and hair as pale as moonlight. Even standing still, she seemed to exude an ethereal grace. The sheer amount of mana flowing through her aura marked her as a pureblood, the kind of elf rarely seen in Haylich, much less in a backwater like Hetnia. Gareth’s surprise must have shown on his face, for the elf rolled her eyes—a motion she somehow performed with an air of elegance.

“Yes, yes, I’m not some woodland half-breed,” even her voice carried a smooth, lilting cadence. “Before you ask, I’m here because my dear cousins decided it would be better for the clan to kidnap me and sell me into slavery. I spent a long time being passed around local lords. Even now that I’ve been freed, I won’t return until I have dealt with everyone who partook in my flesh.” Her eyes gleamed with a cold fury. “Consider it a personal vendetta.”

For a moment, Gareth could only stare. He had faced all manner of people in his years of service—soldiers, mages, even spirits—but he hadn’t expected to find a pureblood elf pledging herself to the Revolution, much less one bent on vengeance against nobles as a whole. The few he had met were usually so ethereal to appear above mortal concerns.

“I see,” he said, recovering his composure. “Well met, then.” He dipped his head in a respectful nod before turning his attention back to the others.

The young man spoke second. “Commander Sparrow,” he said curtly, his voice low and gravelly. “I lead the scouts, and I’ve been monitoring Volten’s defenses for months now.” His voice was rough, born from long nights in the field. “Our assets are ready to take the next step whenever you are.”

Gareth nodded in acknowledgment before turning to the older man. “General Oz,” the old soldier rumbled. “I’ve been in charge here since Lady Amelia’s departure.” His gaze was steady, appraising Gareth with a hint of something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. “And you are General Doomspear, the Liberator of Stonebridge.” He extended his hand toward a vacant chair. “Come, sit. We’ve much to discuss.”

Gareth moved to take the offered seat, glancing at the shadow elemental at the edge of the table. It met his gaze with a disturbingly human-like nod, its expression unreadable, and spoke in its unsettling voice. “The Mistress has allowed us spirits to have a much greater presence here in the east,” it said, the words like whispers from a cold draft. “We ensure that her delegates are always well-informed and that her enemies are dealt with swiftly.”

The revelation left Gareth with a knot of unease, though he kept his features impassive.

General Oz leaned forward, his expression softening just a fraction. “You’ve arrived at an opportune time,” he said. “We’re finalizing our plans to take Volten. The wards have held for now, but they’re weakening, and our scouts report growing unrest within the city. We need a decisive strike, and with your arrival, we finally have the strength to make it happen.”

Chapter 129 - Once More Unto the Breach - Gareth 3

Stars twinkled above as Gareth led his troops toward the shore. The chilly evening breeze carried the scent of salt and seaweed, and the crashing waves echoed off the rocky beach. Ahead, a cluster of small fishing boats and a couple of larger sloops bobbed gently on the dark waters, waiting for them alongside a few dozen local fishermen who had volunteered for the job despite knowing the dangers.

Gareth glanced over his shoulder at his troops. Beyond the fifty or so humans, he was bringing about a dozen orcs with him to help should they get caught.

This last group moved with uncharacteristic hesitation, shuffling nervously toward the boats as if the sea were some alien beast poised to swallow them whole. Gareth felt a chuckle build up, but he suppressed it; it wasn’t as if he had expected the proud forest warriors to take naturally to the idea of leaving solid ground behind. Only Elder Wei, whose grizzled face seemed carved from stone, showed no fear. She had apparently crossed the sea long ago when her tribe had sent her as an envoy to distant lands, and her footsteps now were as steady as ever.

“Come on, then,” Gareth said firmly. “The sooner we get aboard, the sooner we’ll be back on dry land.”

Despite the grumbles and resigned snorts, the orcs began climbing into the boats, their heavy boots clunking on the wooden planks. Gareth and the remaining men under his command followed, taking their places at the bow of one of the sloops. The small fleet bobbed restlessly as the soldiers settled in, the gentle rise and fall of the water unnerving to those more accustomed to the unyielding ground beneath their feet. Gareth signaled the rowers, and the oars dipped into the dark sea as the vessels pushed away from the shore.

The night enfolded them as they made their way toward the open sea, where their quarry would be working. The moon hung low in the sky, its pale light struggling to pierce the thickening mist that rolled in from the east. A few distant lights twinkled on the water, marking the outer edges of the harbor where the city’s wards lay, invisible yet impenetrable.

General Oz’s plan had been daring, but it was their best chance. As observed by the shadow elementals, the city’s wards were lifted once a week—if only over the harbor— to allow fishermen free passage to unload their catches. Volten didn’t have enough food stores to survive a siege since it was forced to host the remnants of the royal army, and its lord deemed it less risky to send out fishermen than to brave his people’s hunger.

It was a heavily monitored vulnerability. But it was a crack, and cracks were all the Revolutionary Army needed.

The rhythmic creak of oars and the slap of water against wood filled the silence as the small flotilla glided closer to the nearest shoal. In the darkness, Gareth could make out the forms of other fishing boats drifting over the shallow waters, where plentiful schools of fish swam, their lanterns swaying softly in the night breeze. The glow of torches along the distant city’s walls ensured that no one forgot the need for discretion. Gareth kept his eyes on the distant shimmer in the air, where the city’s wards rippled with power.

“We’re getting close,” Gareth whispered to Elder Wei, who crouched beside him, her eyes fixed on the approaching harbor.

The old orc grunted, her gaze steady. “Let’s hope the shadows have done their part.”

A signal from him prompted the troops to tense in wait. Shadows melted into oppressive darkness, preventing any sound from leaving the area while still allowing the swaying lanterns to continue flickering undisturbed. Gareth and his men waited until they closed the distance and jumped, boarding the unsuspecting fishing vessels.

The handful of fishermen and slave-sailors, tired and unsuspecting, were overwhelmed in a matter of moments, their muffled cries for help cut short by the cold press of steel. Gareth’s men restrained the stunned captives under the fish, binding their hands and gagging them before donning their weathered cloaks and ragged hats.

While killing them would have been easier, these men were innocent. Indeed, one might say they were the reason they were doing this. They were poor people, pushed into servitude, if not outright slavery, and onto the most dangerous jobs only because no one would stand up for them.

The orcs concealed themselves beneath thick, coarse tunics, hiding their bulk under layers of fabric. Bent down and engaged in grunt work, they could pass for slaves, and no one bothered to look at slaves.

Gareth pulled the hood of his cloak low over his fine features, glancing around as the elementals emerged from the darkness, slipping aboard with unnatural grace. In their hands, they carried bulging sacks, the unmistakable stench of fresh fish seeping through the rough cloth.

“That will do,” Gareth murmured as he checked the haul. “They should have no reason to suspect us.”

At his approval, the shadows dispersed, dissipating into mist as Gareth’s boat led the disguised fleet back toward Volten. As they rowed into the harbor, the fog thickened, clinging to the water like a ghostly shroud. The cries of gulls echoed from the docks, mingling with the splash of oars and the low murmur of disguised fishermen calling to one another in the gloom.

Just as the boats reached the last stretch before the harbor, a low hum vibrated through the air, and the faint shimmer of the wards flickered. The enchantments parted like a veil, forming an invisible crack in the protective barrier. Gareth’s grip on the edge of his boat tightened, but they slipped through the breach smoothly, rowing onward without any trouble. He scanned the ramparts around them, noticing several mages perched around the docks who carefully ensured that the wards closed behind them.

Gareth’s heart quickened as they neared the quay, but the guards watched indifferently, accustomed to the sight of returning fishing boats. The men aboard Gareth’s vessel played their roles to perfection, grunting and cursing as they dragged sacks of fish onto the dock. The orcs lumbered off the boats, heads bowed and postures slouched, moving as if greatly encumbered, imitating the weary labor of slaves.

A mage approached, his robes fluttering as he stepped into the light of a nearby torch. He glanced at the haul, his expression bored. “Took you longer than usual,” he remarked.

“Aye, m’lord,” Gareth replied, keeping his voice gruff and low. “Almost capsized with the weight of the catch. But we made it.” He kicked the nearest sack, releasing a fresh waft of fish smell into the air. “Am just glad we got enough for the whole week.”

The mage wrinkled his nose and waved them on, more interested in returning to the warmth of the guardhouse than investigating further now that he had confirmed they had done their jobs. Gareth motioned for his men to continue unloading the cargo, keeping a weary eye on the massive walls above them. Now that they were inside, the real work would begin.

The fish concealed the captured fishermen well enough that Gareth felt secure leaving them behind. The men lay bundled beneath heaps of slimy catch with their limbs bound and their mouths silenced by cloth. A cursory glance would reveal nothing but fish; even a closer inspection would be fooled by the meticulous arrangement of the sacks. Gareth ensured each haul was thickly packed, making it impossible to notice anything unusual unless one decided to plunge their hands directly into the smelly mess.

Satisfied, he gathered his troops and motioned them forward. “Let’s move out,” he whispered.

The city lay hushed under curfew; the only sounds were the faint murmur of the sea and the occasional call of a night bird. The wide streets seemed to stretch endlessly ahead in the occasional torchlight, winding through rows of darkened buildings and deserted shops. Gareth and his men trudged forward, pushing the large buckets of fish in handcarts. The orcs, hunched and subdued in their oversized cloaks, trudged along with the proper downtrodden shuffle.

They are better at subterfuge than one would think. I wonder if they had to infiltrate a human town before. I’d say it’s impossible, but my gut tells me otherwise.

Every so often, Gareth glanced over his shoulder, ensuring they maintained the formation. Their route took them deeper into the city, where the market square lay still and empty, the stalls abandoned for the night. It was also on the direct path to the lord’s castle, whose tall spires were barely visible in the gloom.

Their luck held as they reached the market square without incident and found the expanse eerily silent, save for the occasional gust that rattled loose shutters. But just as Gareth motioned his men to slow their pace, the clinking of armor sounded from an alleyway. A patrol emerged.

Getting to the castle without meeting one would have been a bit too lucky. Already, the curfew has been a big help. I don’t know the specific numbers now, but Volten used to have at least forty thousand citizens. With the leftover corps from Pollus’ army and the people that fled here from the countryside, it should still have about that much.

Gareth stepped forward nonchalantly and let out a low grunt, “Fresh catch, boys. The haul was heavier than usual.” He slapped the side of a nearby bucket, sending a few smaller fish flopping over the rim.

The guard in the lead wrinkled his nose at the smell and waved a hand dismissively. “Get on with it then. And keep it quiet.”

“Aye, we’ll be gone soon,” Gareth replied, being entirely honest. He inclined his head toward the castle as if in respect while scouring the path ahead for more obstacles, finding none.

The guards trudged off, vanishing around a corner. Gareth wasted no time, signaling for his men to continue.

The castle’s iron gates were closed and flanked by two tired-looking sentries sharing a bored conversation. A few lanterns cast just enough light over the grounds to illuminate the wide courtyard beyond, full of scattered supply crates and empty carts.

As Gareth approached with his men, one guard took notice, his brow furrowing. “What are you doing here? The castellan isn’t due to inspect the market for hours. You’re supposed to leave the fish in the square.”

Gareth took a half-step closer, his voice lowering to a conspiratorial murmur. “We thought the lord’s household might appreciate the best of the catch tonight. Fresh from the sea, before any other hands touch it.”

The second guard, more wary than his companion, shifted uneasily, his grip tightening on his spear. “Back off,” he snapped. “You’re not allowed past here.”

Gareth moved quickly. Before either guard could raise the alarm, he lunged forward, striking the first guard across the throat with a lightning-fast chop. The poor man’s eyes widened in shock as he stumbled back, choking. In the same breath, Gareth swung his leg, kicking the second guard’s feet from under him and bringing his elbow down onto the man’s temple. Both fell to the ground in a tangle of limbs, unconscious before they hit the cobblestones.

“Move!” Gareth barked as he grabbed the iron gates and forced them open with a tortured creak. His men spilled into the courtyard behind him, weapons drawn and disguises shed. The orcs straightened to their full height, casting aside their cloaks to reveal their carved bone armor. Shouts erupted from deeper within the castle as soldiers caught sight of the intruders.

But it was too late. Gareth and his troops surged forward, their momentum carrying them through the courtyard like a wave crashing over the shore. Steel clashed as the guards rallied, but the Revolutionary soldiers had the advantage of preparation and utter ruthlessness. They drove into the castle as orcish war cries split the night.

Chapter 130 - The Lightning Strikes - Gareth 4

The cries of the wounded filled the courtyard as Gareth's troops pressed their advantage. The castle’s guards fell quickly, caught off guard by the sudden attack. With Gareth fighting at the forefront, slicing through armor and flesh alike as if he were the grim reaper, his men quickly overwhelmed the defenders. It wasn't long before the last of the resistance in the outer courtyard collapsed under Elder Wei's mace.

Before more soldiers could pour out of the castle, Gareth decided that since they had been so efficient in the slaughter, he could afford to split their group. The ward schema lay within the highest tower, and time was their most precious commodity, since they couldn’t afford for reinforcements to box them in. Two paths diverged from the courtyard: one leading into the castle's main hall and the other winding around the outer wall to a secondary entrance. Gareth turned to Elder Wei, whose feral grin flashed white against the blood splattered on her face. She swung her mace casually, its spikes still dripping red.

"Take the left path and secure the back entrance," he ordered, "Cut off anyone trying to reinforce from that side."

A glint of savage delight entered the elder’s eyes. "With pleasure," she growled, hefting her weapon and thundering off toward the stairwell, the orcs and a few human soldiers following her.

Gareth turned to the rest of his men. "With me!" he barked, then led them through the castle's inner gates. The second courtyard was larger and teemed not with soldiers but with terrified servants. Women, children, and elders scattered at the sight of armed men, screams tearing through the night as they fled toward the dark recesses of the castle.

He let them run. They were no threat, and his task lay elsewhere.

The castle's main entrance loomed before them, with great iron-bound doors flanked by marble columns. Gareth's boots thudded against the stone as he surged forward, his men following close behind. But the first signs of resistance appeared even before they reached the gates. Soldiers emerged from the archways and side passages, assembling hurriedly into a defensive line before the entrance.

Gareth's steps slowed, his lips curling in faint amusement as he observed the small group trying to bar their path. The soldiers' faces were tense, but their stances were resolute. A few wore the elaborate armor of elite guards, yet it wasn't their formation or their numbers that caught his eye.

It was the cannon they were trying to hide.

The metal monstrosity was being rolled behind the soldiers, its barrel aimed squarely at the advancing group. Faint purple arcs of energy danced around its muzzle, charging for a shot that would tear through Gareth's men like a reaper's scythe. The sight wiped the smirk from his face.

Without hesitation, he decided to put an end to any foolishness. Power surged through his veins with barely a push, crackling to life as a lance of violet lightning materialized in his hand, humming with deadly energy. He hurled the construct before the soldiers could react, slicing through the air with a high-pitched whine. It shot past the ranks of men, striking the cannon's charging core with pinpoint accuracy.

The cannon erupted in a blinding flash of light, its accumulated magical energy exploding violently. A concussive blast tore through the courtyard, sending chunks of stone and metal shrapnel that shredded the flesh of anyone unlucky enough to be close. Soldiers were thrown from their feet, and the ground beneath them shuddered as the shockwave rippled outward, leaving a smoking crater where the cannon had stood.

Gareth didn't give his enemies a moment to recover. "Finish them!" he shouted, voice rising above the cries. His soldiers leaped into action, surging forward with blades drawn, eliminating the dazed and wounded guards who had survived the explosion. The air stank of scorched metal and blood as the last of the defenders fell.

Striding past the chaos, Gareth fixed his gaze on the looming structure ahead. The shadows' scouting had been clear—Volten's wards were controlled from a chamber high in the castle, not in the usual catacombs or basements where most cities hid such vital structures. It was an unusual choice, but it played in his favor. He gripped his spear tighter, the shaft crackling faintly with residual magic, and began ascending the spiral staircase that led to the upper levels.

The stairwell was narrow and steep, winding upwards with no view of what lay above. Gareth sharpened his senses, straining for any hint of movement, and coiled his muscles like springs. As he reached the first landing, a trio of guards appeared, their swords and armor glowing with significant enhancements.

Not breaking his stride, Gareth disarmed the closest man with a single strike. He pivoted, thrusting the spear's butt into the second guard's chest with enough force to crater the stone behind him. The third guard tried to go around, ruthlessly using his companions' fate to his advantage, but before he could complete the maneuver, Gareth was already upon him, driving his spearpoint through the man's armor. The lightning he unleashed into his chest did the rest.

His men followed behind him as he kept going up the stairs, sensing several powerful presences waiting for him.

The spiral stairway opened into a vast hall, the walls lined with banners and tapestries depicting Volten's proud history. The remnants of Gareth's men poured into the corridor behind him, their faces grim and determined. At the far end, blocking the passage to the ward chamber, stood Count Volten himself. The portly noble's rich robes billowed slightly, embroidered in deep blue and gold, glinting faintly with the enchantments woven into the fabric. Flanking him were two knights clad in blackened steel, whose swords gleamed wickedly in the torchlight, and behind the Count stood a younger man. His defiant expression told a story of stubbornness.

Gareth's eyes met Count Volten's, and the hall seemed to hold its breath for a heartbeat. There was no plea for mercy, no offer of surrender—only the grim acceptance of a man who knew his fate was upon him. The Count's gaze flickered to the young man at his back, and his voice, though heavy with authority, held a note of tenderness. "Gideon," he said, "take your mother and sister and go. Now."

Gideon's expression darkened with anger. "No! I will fight at your side!" he shouted, his hand going to the hilt of his sword as though to prove his conviction. "I'm the heir! I will die by your side, father!"

Count Volten didn't spare him another glance, and his voice hardened to steel. "Go," he repeated, the single word like a hammer striking stone. "That is an order from your lord, boy."

For a moment, it seemed like Gideon would refuse again, but the intensity in his father's tone finally broke him. His shoulders slumped, and with one last, furious look at Gareth, he turned and ran, disappearing down a side passage. Gareth let him go without a word; the lad was no threat, and Elder Wei would ensure that no one escaped into the night.

There is no need to tell him that, however. It would just lead to more desperate last stands, and time's of the essence now. I am strong, but even I can't take the entirety of Volten's garrison. I can take a breather as soon as the wards are down.

Count Volten shifted, becoming much more threatening. The air around him shimmered as mana coiled and gathered with visible potency. He began to murmur a low, rhythmic chant without bothering to address the invaders. Ancient words spilled forth like the rumbling of distant thunder. Magic surged in the hall, heavy and threatening, as he prepared to deal with those who’d attack his seat.

"Take the knights!" Gareth ordered, calling upon his own power. His men surged forward, clashing with the armored guards in a frenzy of ringing steel and shouted commands.

Gareth lunged toward the Count, lightning crackling down the length of his spear as he closed the distance, intending to take him out before he could get started. But before he could reach him, a wave of force erupted from the Count's outstretched hand, slamming into him like a battering ram. He staggered back, his boots skidding on the smooth stone floor, and barely managed to raise his spear in time to deflect the bolt of flame that seared the air where his head had been.

The Count pressed the attack, hurling spell after spell in quick succession—fiery whips, gusts of superheated vapor, and even constructs of flames all met their end upon Gareth's spear, but they prevented any advance. Each incantation was cast with the immense skill of a Master Mage, forcing Gareth onto the defensive. He parried and dodged, using his weapon to deflect the most dangerous attacks, but the raw power behind the spells sent jolts up his arm, numbing his grip and forcing him to expend more mana to shield himself from the heat.

Deciding that he had been on the backfoot too long, Gareth hurled a lightning bolt at the Count, hiding it within a seemingly ordinary thrust meant to disperse a fiery eagle. The energy crackled across the distance, yet it met a shimmering barrier, deflecting off and melting the floor at the Count's feet. The mage's shield shimmered like a wall of water, rippling from the impact but holding firm.

Gritting his teeth, Gareth pressed harder, channeling his frustration into another surge of power. He forced the Count to shift his stance, battering his defenses with one crackling bolt after another, each more intense than the last. The noble's expression remained calm, but Gareth could see the strain building in his stance, and soon, cracks started to form in his barrier.

The battle raged all around them. Gareth could feel his men's deaths like a series of dull thuds against his consciousness—more than a few fell to the skill and savagery of the knights, who fought like men possessed to hold their ground. But he had no time to mourn or falter. The anger coursing through him only stoked the intensity of his attacks, and the lightning in his spear grew brighter and sharper.

The Count's chanting reached a fever pitch, his voice laced with desperation as he attempted to gather enough power for a decisive blow. But Gareth saw his opportunity. With a roar, he channeled all his fury into a single, massive bolt of purple lightning. It crashed against the Count's shield, bending it inward. With a final, triumphant surge, Gareth physically broke through, and his spear lanced forward with the speed of a thunderclap.

He found flesh, piercing through the layers of enchantment and into the Count's chest. There was a moment of silence—a heartbeat where time seemed to stop—before the spellfire fizzled from the mage's hands. Count Volten's eyes widened in shock and pain as the electric charge surged through him, lighting up his veins like cracks in glass. He convulsed, mouth open as if to scream, but no sound came. Then his knees buckled, and he collapsed to the cold stone, dead.

The chamber was still, save for the labored breathing of the survivors and the faint hum of lingering magic. Gareth yanked his spear free from the Count's body, sparing one last glance at the fallen mage before turning to see his men still engaged with the knights.

Taking a step forward, he pointed his spear to the two men, "You can surrender immediately and be treated as prisoners of war. I'd take it if I were you. The other option is a very painful death."

For a moment, the two knights struggled with the decision. They were obviously important members of the household, given their valuable arms and armor. Though Gareth would have preferred their surrender, he couldn't help but feel a glimmer of respect when they firmed up and prepared to fight him.

It still didn't stop him from throwing their charred remains from the window before breaking into the ward room.

Chapter 131 - Push the Resistance - Neer 10

Chasing the rebels ahead of the main army was more annoying than she would have liked.

While Neer didn’t mind a good hunt and, indeed, had enjoyed pulling the slaving scum from whatever hole they found to hide, things changed when someone with a brain started organizing the retreat.

Sweeping through Pepperhof had required some care, as the retreating loyalists had turned it into a hellhole of traps, uncaring about the still significant civilian population, but Neer had hoped that once the town was secured, she’d be able to have some fun. Her duel with the enemy knight had made her hope she’d find worthwhile opponents.

Instead, she had been forced to slog through every village, looking for the remnants of the Southern Army’s rearguard.

Oh, the vast majority of it had hightailed it toward Hassel, but a significant number of soldiers under the command of one General Morrison were doing their very best to slow the Revolutionary Army down.

They wouldn’t be successful—Neer was there to dig them out of their holes with the vanguard precisely for that reason—but they were annoying.

Now, as the outskirts of Ficklewood came into view, Neer felt her anticipation rekindle. The town was a scrappy maze of wood-framed buildings clustered along the main road, the thin sprawl interspersed with squat barns and tall stacks of felled timber waiting to be loaded for shipment. Ficklewood’s importance lay in its position: a critical junction on the trade route leading from Treon to Hassel. At best, it was simply a stop along the way.

Today, however, it was more than that. Her scouts and diviner had confirmed that Morrison had set up here, and with him, the rearguard of the once proud Southern Army was making its final stand.

Choosing this town was a clever move. The auxiliary roads from Ficklewood were narrow and winding, with thick woodlands on either side—an ideal place to slow an advancing force, which meant they couldn’t lead the army around without wasting more time and suffering unacceptable casualties. They had to take it.

She had expected token resistance, perhaps a few hundred soldiers hiding behind makeshift barricades. But as her grim-faced scout approached, Neer realized it wouldn’t be that easy.

“Report,” she rumbled.

The scout was a wiry, silver-haired orc whose years as a ranger had honed his senses to razor precision. He shifted, his jaw clenched. “The general has gathered the remaining rearguard here. Two full companies by the looks of it, maybe more. And…” He hesitated, glancing back at the town. “They’ve got cannons. Heavy guns positioned along the southern ridge.”

Artillery. Neer didn’t bother to hide her surprise. Morrison had somehow managed to amass weaponry far exceeding the usual provisions for a rearguard force—especially considering how quickly the Southern Army had been forced to retreat. If he had guns aimed at the only available staging area, they would be in for a brutal reception.

“Where did he pull enough supplies to get any cannon loaded?” she asked, though she didn’t expect an answer. There were many possible explanations, from Ficklewood hosting a strategic supply depot they hadn’t known about to Count Pollus leaving behind enough heavy machinery to hasten his journey so that Morrison could gather a significant battery.

She glanced back toward her commanders, finding some in deep thought while others—mostly the orcs—were unfazed. Neer felt the same eagerness return with force and had to force herself to focus. She could feel her fingers itching, hungry for the combat ahead. Still, if Morrison intended to dig in at Ficklewood, they’d need more than adrenaline. She needed to come up with a plan.

“I need an assessment of how far Pollus is from Hassel first. Then we’ll think about Morrison,” she decided. While she expected she’d be able to force her way into Ficklewood from the sides if necessary, she didn’t want to split her forces, especially since she didn’t know if it was a trap.

Her diviner, a young woman barely older than twenty, closed her eyes and muttered softly. Clasping her hands as if in prayer, she cast her gaze beyond.

“They’re still two days out,” she murmured at last, eyes flashing open. “The main army, that is. The rearguard has no intention of retreating. They have truly dug in.”

Neer’s lips pressed into a thin line. So, Morrison was planning to die here.

She barely had time to process the implications when the first resounding boom of cannon fire shattered the silence—a searing burst of heat and force ripped through the treeline just to her left, tearing down trees and incinerating ten square feet.

“Move!” she shouted, snapping from surprise to instinct in the blink of an eye. “Back! Deeper into the forest! Get cover, now!”

The orcs were quick, and her Security Forces didn’t need to be told twice. They scattered, disappearing into the undergrowth as another thunderous volley shook the earth. Neer ducked low, glancing over her shoulder to gauge the damage, only to see that the cannon fire had shifted to track their movements, targeting the line of trees where her troops took cover.

She cursed under her breath as another round roared, sending deadly splinters flying when the shells crashed into a nearby tree. The noise was deafening.

Morrison was pulling no punches.

“Fall back deeper!” she called, her voice carrying through the shriek of incoming fire. Her orders were met with shouts of acknowledgment, and her troops retreated in staggered bursts. A few covered the advance of others with protective spells, though they kept their distance from each other to avoid presenting too tempting a target.

As the bombardment continued, Neer’s mind raced. Morrison’s artillery was a calculated attempt to disrupt her organization, to keep her vanguard scattered and on the defensive before they even reached the town’s perimeter. This wasn’t how he would win, but it would certainly bleed her vanguard if she allowed herself to be pinned down here.

She ducked behind a boulder, taking a moment to catch her breath, her senses heightened by the adrenaline coursing through her veins. The acrid smell of burning wood filled the air, and a thick haze hung over the forest. She could hear her men regrouping around her, rallying to her commands even as they huddled in whatever cover they could find.

It was a small comfort, knowing their courage was unwavering. But it wouldn’t be enough to break through Ficklewood’s defenses. Not without a way to counter that artillery.

As the cannon fire rumbled on, Neer quickly assessed their options. The guns weren’t hidden—firing from a vantage point next to the gates. If she could get close enough and take advantage of the forest cover, she could send a small squad to flank them, get inside their lines, and disable the cannons from within, but that felt too obvious. Morrison would expect that.

Getting that close would mean heavy casualties. And she’d have to do it without getting the entire vanguard caught in the open.

She took a deep breath, steadying herself, before calling out in a low voice. “You lot,” she said, signaling to a group of orcs clustered nearby. “Form a flanking squad and go through the forest. Keep low, stay in pairs, and make for the cannons as soon as there’s a gap in the fire. Your only target is the artillery. I’ll handle the suppression. Understood?”

The orcs grunted in agreement. They knew the risks as well as she did, but their courage ran deep, and she could trust them with the task.

Her orders echoed back through the ranks as the orcs broke off, slipping away with surprising grace. Meanwhile, Neer began organizing the remaining SF soldiers, ordering them into staggered groups to draw fire and give the flanking unit cover.

The bombardment didn’t let up, but as the minutes ticked by, Neer noticed a slight shift. The cannons, powerful though they were, couldn’t maintain fire indefinitely. Extending her senses to the utmost, she could hear the faint scrape of equipment and the grumbling of gunners calling for ammunition, and she knew it was only a matter of time before they were empty.

She took a deep, bracing breath and drew her cleaver from her back. As she fed it mana, the blade began taking with an ominous crimson hue. Neer steadied herself, feeling the weight of it in her hands, and called upon [Berserker’s Tranquillity], her newest ability.

Her skin tingled as the magic flooded through her body, her muscles coiling like tempered steel and her senses sharpening to a deadly edge. Power thrummed in her veins, vibrant and red, curling around her like a faint mist that danced with each breath.

A part of her felt the strain of casting such intricate magic; she had only recently begun practicing this depth of battle meditation, which demanded focus she’d once thought was beyond her. But today, she could feel the thin line between clarity and rage—a potent wellspring she could draw from without losing herself to fury. Her eyes blazed a deep, smoldering red, and the mist thickened, cloaking her in a veil of crimson.

Neer didn’t waste any more time. She clenched the hilt of her blade, set her focus on the town, and surged forward, taking increasingly faster strides.

Her sudden emergence from the forest must have been jarring to Morrison’s troops; the rhythm of the cannon fire faltered for a breath as the gunners adjusted their aim to the figure streaking across the battlefield in a haze of red. Neer felt a thrill rise in her chest, wild and fierce.

Cannons that had been battering the treeline with a relentless barrage now swung to focus on her, the operators scrambling to reload in time to intercept her charge. The first shell screamed as it fell on her.

Neer swung her cleaver with a snarl, carving through the air with a wave of energy, meeting the cannon’s blast head-on and detonating it midair. The impact flared in a flash of light, sending a rain of scorched shrapnel across the field.

She didn’t stop.

A second cannon fired, the explosion gouging into the ground where she had been just moments before as she veered to the left. Another roar, another wave of energy from her cleaver, and she cut down the third before it could reach her, a shockwave of force rippling out from the impact.

From all around the town, the royal army soldiers began to gather, confused but determined to intercept the lone warrior charging at their cannons. She heard the cries of alarm and the shouts of officers trying to rally their men, but Neer’s focus never wavered.

Only the artillery mattered.

The rhythm of battle sang in her blood, each strike of her cleaver releasing crescents of raw, crimson power that smashed into incoming blasts or slashed at the soldiers bold enough to come within range. Cannon after cannon fired, trying to box her in, but Neer wove through them in a deadly dance. The blasts illuminated the haze around her, a red mist swirling like fire in the chaos, and every time she blocked another blast, the shock reverberated through her muscles, steadying her focus even more.

Through the haze, she caught glimpses of her soldiers breaching the outskirts of Ficklewood. Her vanguard met Morrison’s men head-on, clashing with the barricaded defenders scattered throughout the town. She saw the flash of steel and the arcs of magic, but she couldn’t afford to pay them any mind. Her men had their orders, and she trusted them to execute them. For now, she was the distraction, the focal point of the artillery’s fury, and she intended to hold that attention as long as she could.

Another blast came her way, faster this time. She barely had time to brace as the shell struck her directly. The explosion tore through the air, sending her flying back. She felt a brief flicker of pain as her arms absorbed the worst of the impact. But she gritted her teeth, ignoring the pain, and surged forward again, roaring defiantly.

Morrison’s men scrambled to reload, more frantic as they realized the artillery wasn’t enough to stop her. She could almost taste their fear and heard the frantic shouts as they tried to rally. She could sense the mana barriers they were raising around the cannons, shimmering shields of blue and gold, each one costing them precious energy.

Good. Let them drain their reserves trying to keep up with me.

She swung, unleashing another crescent that shattered against a nearby shield, cracking it and sending two soldiers flying. Their gun fell silent, its operators scrambling away, and Neer took the momentary lull to press forward.

One of the cannons fired again, but she raised her cleaver, channeling the red mist into a barrier. The blast struck true, dispersing it but failing to break through. She pushed against it with a snarl, gathering the haze and sending it back, forcing the gunners to halt their barrage.

Another shell exploded to her right, peppering her with debris, but she ignored it, focused solely on the cannons ahead. Her vision narrowed, her thoughts sharpening to a single point.

More soldiers tried to intercept her, but she swept them aside with powerful arcs of her cleaver. The resistance was faltering, and she could see the panic spreading through the front lines as they realized she was too close to target. Neer roared again, her voice echoing across the battlefield, challenging anyone who dared to stand in her way.

A lone man stepped forth.

Chapter 132 - Believe - Neer 11

Through the haze of red mist that filled her vision, Neer spotted him—a lone figure advancing through the smoke, every step deliberate, as though the surrounding chaos couldn’t touch him. She instantly knew who it was and subconsciously widened her stance, preparing for a fight.

General Morrison. The man who had been ordered to die to slow the revolution down.

The man’s armor was more elaborate than she’d expected—and she had been a noble’s slave for many long years— ornate and gleaming with intricate carvings that represented the man’s House. He held a silver spear in his right hand, whose blade glowed faintly, betraying the subtle enchantments layered into the metal. He was tall and lean, almost frail compared to the brutes she had carved her way through, but the calm resolve in his eyes set Neer’s senses on edge.

This man had made peace with his destiny, and he’d do everything in his power to fulfill his orders.

He glanced once to the eastern edge of town, where Neer’s soldiers were currently fighting with the defenders. His eyes lingered there momentarily, but he made no move to order reinforcements or to intervene personally. Instead, he continued his measured advance toward her, shoulders squared and steps even. Whatever fear his soldiers might have felt, Morrison seemed untouched by it. There was only the faintest crease of worry on his brow, but she could recognize it as the look of someone who was evaluating their chances.

Neer’s instincts told her to press forward, to end him quickly, yet something made her pause. She took a deep breath and willed herself to steady her power, reining in the haze of crimson that had been spilling from her blade like blood from a wound. The red mist throbbed as if sensing her desire to hold back. Slowly, it began to draw back in, pooling closer to her body in a tight, controlled aura. She almost felt it resisting her restraint, like an animal straining against its leash, but her will was unyielding and it eventually came to heel.

Morrison came to a stop twenty feet from her. He gave her a slow, appraising nod, as if acknowledging a worthy adversary.

“I am General Albright Morrison,” he announced. “Knight of House Morrison and loyal servant of House Hetnia. No one shall pass.”

The statement hung in the air, simple and unyielding, like a mountain standing against a flood. Neer’s fingers tightened around the hilt of her cleaver, feeling its weight, the pulse of its mana echoing her own anticipation. This was not an enemy to underestimate. The sheer calm in his voice, in his eyes—it wasn’t the arrogance of a soldier who underestimated his opponent. It was the confidence of a man who knew the stakes very well and was prepared to fight to the death for his cause.

She straightened, giving a slight nod of respect. “General Neer of the Glorious Revolution’s Security Forces, in direct service to the Grand Marshal and Hero of the Light, Leonard Weiss.” Her voice rang out with devotion. Even now, she still had trouble believing she was allowed to serve such a man.

As she spoke, the red haze around her flickered with a glimmer of gold. A strange, all-encompassing warmth mingled with her energy, but she forced herself to ignore it. This was no time for distraction. She focused her gaze back on Morrison, his stance, and the steady grip on his spear. She raised her cleaver, readying herself.

After the formalities were exchanged, a heavy silence settled over them, one final moment of calm before the storm broke. Morrison shifted, planting his feet wide and angling his spear in a neutral guard. She could see the wear in his posture, the tired lines etched into his face from decades of service. Yet his eyes burned with a determination she recognized all too well—a fire that could only be extinguished by victory or death.

Neer suspected she could end this with brute force, could tear through him and crush whatever magic lingered in his spear with sheer power alone. But there was something about this fight and the steadfastness in Morrison’s gaze that demanded more. This would not be a brawl; it would be a duel—a test of wills as much as of strength.

Morrison struck first, closing the distance between one breath and the next. His spear became a streak of silver, aiming for her jugular. Neer had kept her gaze on his feet for a reason and sidestepped, her cleaver rising to meet the thrust in a clash of metal. Sparks flew as the spear’s enchantment collided with the red mist encasing her blade, and the air vibrated with power.

She twisted her grip, forcing his spear back, but Morrison flowed with the movement, bringing it down toward her exposed side.

She blocked it with a quick flick of her wrist, shifting her stance to match his, using her weapon’s hilt to redirect the lighter spear, aiming to damage the haft. Again, it held.

He was fast, retreating immediately once the attack appeared unsuccessful and seamlessly launching into another strike, his footwork fluid and unbroken. It was like fighting a river—he moved around her, his spear an extension of his will, darting and weaving with incredible precision.

But Neer was no lesser.

She tightened her hold on her mana and let the crimson mist seep out once more, her blade flaring with raw energy as she forced him back with a powerful swing. The ground trembled as she slammed the cleaver down, sending a shockwave that cracked the earth beneath them. Morrison staggered, only for a moment, but it was enough. She followed up with a sweeping arc of her blade, the red mist trailing like a comet’s tail.

He barely dodged, his spear deflecting her strike in a glancing blow that sent him skidding back a few paces. He adjusted, narrowing his eyes as he glanced down at where she had hit. He noticed it was the same spot she had aimed for earlier, and he shifted his stance, angling the spear toward her chest. Neer met his gaze, and for a brief, electric moment, they were locked in mutual understanding—neither would retreat nor yield.

With a grunt, he lunged forward, aiming for her heart. Neer followed her instincts and allowed her feet to move before her brain could process, feeling the graze of the enchanted tip against her armor. She swung where she knew he would end up, and he twisted away, using his spear to push himself off her path and barely escaping whole. His movements were graceful, almost dance-like. His experience on the battlefield was second to none.

But Neer was relentless. She advanced, gaining momentum with each swing, carving arcs of red light that inflicted jagged wounds into the ground.

Morrison’s defenses never failed, but the calm veneer began to crack as she pressed him. He countered with a desperate thrust, but she parried, shoving him back, watching his footing falter as he was forced to avoid one of the craters she had created.

For all the respect she felt for him and the dignity with which he was facing his death, Neer didn’t hold back. Her guiding light had ordered her to clear the path to Hassel, and by all that was holy, she would.

Finally, as they made to engage again, Neer felt her resolve coalesce into something new. Crimson bled into gold, and new power filled her limbs, rejuvenating her and granting her enough strength that Morrison’s spear put no resistance as she cleaved it in two.

Neer savored his disbelief. He understood that, without his weapon, he was helpless before her.

But Morrison didn’t close his eyes or look away. He raised his chin, meeting her gaze one last time with that same unbreakable resolve.

In the heartbeat before the final strike, Neer found herself almost admiring him, this old warrior willing to stand his ground even against impossible odds. She hoped she’d be able to die in the service of the Grand Marshal in the same way.

Then her cleaver came down in a golden arc, and she delivered the killing blow, ending the duel.

The battlefield fell silent.

Neer straightened, her chest heaving, and glanced back at her soldiers as the last of Morrison’s defenders faltered. The path to Ficklewood lay open at last, and as Neer lifted her blade in victory, the haze around her flared with gold once more.

She wasted no time, calling her officers to attention. Rallying her forces for the final push into Ficklewood, Neer scattered the remaining defenders, leaderless and shaken by Morrison’s death as they were. At this point, Neer’s advance was unstoppable, her presence a beacon for her soldiers, and together, they swept through the outskirts of the town, rooting out pockets of resistance.

Ahead of her, the path was littered with broken barricades and hastily discarded weapons, remnants of the defenders’ failed attempts to stall her men. Every so often, a cluster of royal soldiers made a stand, but Neer’s forces made quick work of them. For the soldiers who had watched her defeat their general, any shred of courage quickly faded upon sighting her, and their attempts at resistance crumbled.

There was no need to bring her power to bear, which was good because she still wasn’t sure of what had happened to her. It wasn’t a new Blessing; that was for sure.

Along the town's perimeter, the orc teams she’d deployed in advance tightened their encirclement, preventing any potential escape. They hunted down every soldier who attempted to slip away. Neer repeatedly heard their rallying cries, followed by silence.

As she pushed deeper into Ficklewood, the town fell under revolutionary control with remarkable speed. Her officers directed the soldiers to take strategic positions and the occasional stragglers were apprehended or put down. Within an hour, Ficklewood belonged to the Revolution.

Neer surveyed the smoldering ruins of barricades and the tattered flags of House Hetnia that hung from standards. She called forth her captains and quickly assigned orders, knowing time was scarce. “Prepare the town for occupation,” she instructed. “Our soldiers need lodgings, food, and a place to regroup. The main army will arrive in a day or two—let’s make sure we’re ready for them.”

The captains nodded and dispersed, snapping into action as they directed troops to secure buildings, check for traps, and mark spaces that could serve as temporary barracks and supply stations.

The local civilians, who had largely stayed out of sight during the fighting, slowly emerged from their hiding places, staring at the soldiers with frightened expressions, though no one put up a fight. Neer had them ushered into the town hall under guard to avoid disruptions.

Once she was satisfied with the arrangements, Neer approached her diviner. “I need to know where the Count is,” she asked quietly.

The diviner closed her eyes, fingers tracing strange patterns in the air, her lips moving in silent incantation. A few minutes passed, and finally, the woman’s eyes snapped open, her voice echoing hollowly. “They’re halfway to Hassel. Fresh troops have met them on the way and are making haste back.”

Neer’s jaw tightened, her fingers tapping against her cleaver’s hilt. This meant they were still a day’s march away. The royal army’s lead meant they would reach the city first, no matter how much she pushed her men.

Even if we left now, we wouldn’t catch them. I might be able to if I went ahead with the orcs, but then we’d be hopelessly outnumbered.

“Alright,” she acknowledged with a curt nod. “Now look at what’s happening in the east. I want to know if Gareth has a chance of intercepting Pollus.”

The diviner pressed her hands together, her eyes once again clouding as she whispered an incantation. Neer watched as the woman’s face grew pale, her breath coming in short gasps. A faint trickle of blood ran from her nose, and her entire body shuddered at the effort to peer so far.

“Volten has yet to fall,” she whispered, horrified. “I see rivers of blood and mountains of corpses.”

Chapter 133 - Nasty Business - Gareth 5

Gareth had barely a moment to breathe after taking the castle.

His victory against the Count should have put an end to things—the few local soldiers and the remnants of Pollus' army were no match against Oz's forces. Having watched the wards break apart after he disrupted their schema, he had expected the city to fall soon after. Instead, fighting erupted all over Volten, and what should have been a straightforward operation turned into a bloody slog.

The Eastern Revolutionary Army had forced its way into Volten according to plan, and Gareth had sent a few men ahead to direct the fighting while he held the castle.

But rather than find a broken, retreating enemy, his men faced fierce resistance. Blockades were set at every corner, and loyalists attacked relentlessly from rooftops and chokepoints. They had been forced to retreat lest they be overwhelmed before reaching the main force.

His second attempt saw Lady Amelia’s spirits return with disturbing accounts of seemingly crazed soldiers fighting despite mortal wounds.

Deciding that he’d have to see for himself, Gareth left Elder Wei in charge of holding the castle and went to put an end to the madness. He hoped that once he took to the field and started crushing the defenders, they would understand just how hopelessly outgunned they were and surrender.

Around him, the remains of his strike team gathered, bruised and tired but steadfast. Two dozen warriors, human and orcs alike, waited in the shadow of the market plaza for his orders.

“Be prepared for fierce resistance," he warned before advancing through the inner city’s narrow alleys. They walked quickly, their senses alert, the noise of distant skirmishes pressing in from all directions. Shadows loomed from the edges of broken buildings, and the flickering glow of distant fires gave the streets a ghostly hue.

They moved in formation, checking corners and pushing through possible choke points. Gareth's lightning-charged spear acted as a beacon for all who stood in their way. Every so often, a group of royalists would ambush them from the gloom, seemingly unheeding the danger.

Gareth dispatched them without mercy, cracking skulls and piercing hearts. Around him, his men fought with equal ferocity, and Gareth found himself fighting alongside a particularly fierce orc, Crokk, who wielded an enormous warhammer that crushed plate armor as if it were paper.

"Should be in retreat by now," Crokk growled as he smashed his hammer into another soldier. "But they keep coming."

Gareth nodded grimly, but his focus remained on the street ahead. They passed the shattered remains of storefronts and homes, barricades strewn with debris, signs of desperate last stands. Yet, no matter how many soldiers they cut down, more seemed to take their place.

This is exactly the opposite of what I wanted to happen. What kind of idiotic commander would order his men to fight so suicidally despite knowing the city is doomed? Are they really so loyal to Pollus that they are willing to sacrifice every man in Volten to give him a couple more days to reach Hassel? I haven’t even managed to interrogate one yet because they keep fighting until I have to put them down.

Only after another brutal skirmish that had held their ground with wild, unsettling fervor did Gareth begin to suspect something else was going on. The streets were slick with blood, and everywhere he looked, fallen bodies lay sprawled across the cobblestone. And still, more soldiers approached, emerging from alleys and charging from within buildings. Their faces were hidden behind helmets, but he thought he could feel great hatred from them.

With one wide swing of his spear, Gareth took down three more soldiers, his movements becoming increasingly mechanical. His men began to tire, and their eyes filled with growing horror. This was no ordinary defense, no resolute last stand. Something darker was at work, though Gareth couldn't quite put his finger on what.

Are they drugged? I heard that the Alchemy Guild had put its weight behind the King, but it should be impossible for them to have shipped enough stimulants here with the siege.

After felling another group of soldiers, Crokk turned to Gareth, wiping blood from his brow. "Just how many damn humans do they have in this cursed place?" he snarled in frustration.

The words struck Gareth like a jolt of lightning. He looked around, his mind suddenly working over the strange details—the endless waves of soldiers, the rigid, unthinking manner in which they charged, the way they emerged out of the shadows like specters. And then he understood.

Appearing before the corpse of a man he had just slain with a stab through the neck, Gareth ripped his armor off the body and looked at the wound-riddled flesh beneath. There was no way this man could have stood, much less thrown himself into the fight.

"There's a necromancer in the city," he whispered.

The realization settled heavily over the group, and Gareth watched the horror sink in as his men absorbed what that meant. The soldiers they'd been fighting weren't just loyalists clinging to a lost cause; they were the dead, risen again and again, sent to throw themselves at the revolutionaries without fear, without hesitation.

Ignoring bloodstains and broken armor during such a brutal battle was easy. So easy that Gareth had been killing zombies for the past hour without even noticing.

"They're raising the dead," he repeated louder, his voice hard. "The bastards have found a way to keep throwing their soldiers at us, even after we kill them."

He didn't know for sure that there wasn't a rogue necromancer at work here, but Gareth felt it was a safe bet to say that they were working with the loyalists—at least with the brass, as he doubted the men themselves had agreed. Why would this mysterious dark mage have gone through the effort of controlling the thralls to prevent the ruse from being revealed otherwise?

The horror turned to anger, and his men's faces hardened. They were fighters, trained to face any type of danger. Whether the monster was a slaver or a necromancer, it didn't matter. They would destroy any enemy of the Revolution.

"Men!" he called, rallying them. "The forces of the enemy have always been depraved! They have always been willing to do anything they could to prevent the Light from shining on the good people of Hetnia! Necromancy is just another abomination, and we will purge it from Volten!"

A fierce roar of agreement rippled through his men. They thumped their shields and shouted their willingness to fight.

Gareth scanned their faces and knew they were ready to face whatever horror lay ahead. They wouldn't retreat; he could see the resolve in their eyes, the shared understanding that they needed to hunt down this darkness to the end.

Turning to Crokk, he gripped his arm firmly. "Take half the orcs and clear the parallel street. Push the zombies back if you can and funnel them towards us. It'll give us a better chance of clearing them all."

Crokk grinned savagely. "We'll crush every last one of them."

Gareth nodded, motioning for the remaining few to follow him.

The air grew colder as they moved, and the distant fighting now took a darker meaning. Gareth could feel the mist thickening. His knuckles tightened around the shaft of his spear, and he muttered a quick prayer to the Light.

Now that he knew what to look for, Gareth could spot the faint, sickly haze of miasma swirling around the corpses. It was subtle, hidden by the natural mist clinging to the city, but Gareth could see it now. Dark magic permeated Volten, weaving through every street like an invisible web.

I wonder how the spirits missed this. I thought they'd be more attuned to the weave… Fuck, the necromancer might be a strong one. Amelia didn’t leave behind high-tier elementals, but to hide from them, he has to be at least an Expert.

The strike team worked their way through the narrow alleys, funneling the undead into choke points where Gareth's lightning magic could be unleashed to the greatest effect. Again and again, he raised his spear high, purple lightning crackling along its length, before thrusting it forward and releasing a surge of power that left behind charred bodies and sizzling stone.

Armor clattered as the zombies dropped to the ground, the foul magic that animated them dissipating under the Pure lightning.

"Forward!" Gareth ordered, forcing himself to spread his aura over his people, just in case the necromancer was capable of wide-area spells. He did not want to waste valuable elixirs if he didn't need to, and no one in his group could reliably use Light Magic.

Crokk led his group of orcs through the side alleys, bellowing war cries through the city as they slammed into pockets of undead soldiers, shattering bone and armor alike with their war hammers and axes. The orcish brute strength may not have been as immediately devastating as Pure Casting, but it certainly kept the zombies from rising again.

Deeper into the city, they found living soldiers. The first group was horrified at what their comrades had become and dropped their weapons once they realized the foul creatures hadn't found them.

Gareth held up his hand, signaling for his men to stand down. "You've seen what's happening," he told the frightened soldiers. "There's a necromancer in this city raising the dead to bring the Blight to all, loyalist or revolutionary. Stand down, and you’ll be spared. Some things take precedence over everything.”

The men looked at one another, grimly calculating their chances of survival. They lowered their rifles and put their hands up. "We didn't sign up for this," one muttered, sickly pale with terror.

"Then make yourself useful," Gareth replied firmly. "Barricade yourselves in the buildings. Carve the Revolution's sigil on the doors so we know you're with us, and let no one in until we've cleared the streets."

The soldiers hurried to comply, retreating into the nearest buildings and carving the simple rune of a sword into the doors.

But not all were so easily convinced. The next group they found, a small band of guards wearing the Count’s standard, raged against his claims defiantly, shouting that Gareth was a traitor and that no true soldier would ever flee from their duty. When his words of warning failed to reach them, his spear did, the crackling energy leaving the loyalists lifeless at his feet.

He made sure to burn the bodies so that they wouldn't rise again.

As the night wore on, they slowly cleared each pocket of undead, finally making some headway now that they knew what type of foe they were facing.

Gareth's stamina was running lower than it ever had since he achieved the Master rank, and he could see the weariness in his men’s posture, but they fought on, determined to root out the dark force within Volten.

At last, they reached a barricade held by a group of soldiers bristling with spears. Mages stood among them, prepared to strike down anyone who dared approach with fire. Gareth halted his advance, raising his voice above the crackling energy.

"Stand down!" he called, his voice carrying through the chaos. "In the name of General Gareth Doomspear, I order you to stand down! We're with the Revolutionary Army!"

The soldiers lowered their spears uncertainly, looking at each other before one of them shouted, "Hold! Hold, in the name of all that's holy! That's the General!"

Interrogating the soldiers quickly revealed that, as he suspected, the advance into the city had been stalled almost immediately after the undead were discovered.

General Oz had ordered various squads to scour specific paths and report back. The soldiers remembered enough of his orders for Gareth to realize that the man was trying to triangulate the necromancer’s base.

He's right. I haven't thought about where the necromancer might be because we've met so many zombies that it looked like an outbreak, but unless we're dealing with a Champion, they must get close to the corpses to turn them. I need to find them before the entire city falls to the dead.

Chapter 134 - Chase the Dark - Gareth 6

Gareth reviewed everything he knew as he scanned the streets for hidden enemies, combining what he had learned from the soldiers’ reports with what he had personally observed.

Oz had the right idea to try to triangulate the undead’s origin. Even with a seasoned necromancer directing this twisted force, the undead still needed to be controlled within a central radius. The revolutionaries he encountered confirmed that the undead’s presence was detected almost immediately after the initial breach, which meant the enemy had time to prepare the field.

It didn’t make sense that they knew of his operation, as he would have found zombies within the castle if that was the case. Also, something told him that the late Count Volten hadn’t known about it. The man had been an enemy, but he wasn’t without honor. He wouldn’t have tolerated the foul presence within his city, especially since it was known that once an outbreak started, it often escalated too quickly to avoid collateral damage. Count Volten didn’t seem the type to sacrifice tens of thousands of his subjects to deny his enemy the city.

And yet, there was a necromancer at work, and one with the time to seed his creations throughout the city. That left one of two options. Either this mage had fooled everyone and taken advantage of the siege to infiltrate Volten, bypassing the no-doubt strict controls, or he had been invited in by the people doing those controls—the remnants of the Southern Royal Army.

“Where are the densest clusters of these things?” Gareth asked the closest lieutenant, his voice clipped as he shook off the fatigue that was threatening to creep over him. The zombies weren’t particularly strong, at least compared to him, but there was a seemingly infinite amount.

“Everywhere, sir. But the shadows say they are mostly near the royal barracks, the market district, and the temple. They can’t get too close, or the miasma will damage them, so they haven’t found the origin, sir,” the man stammered, evidently spooked.

At the mention of the temple, Gareth stilled. The Temple of the Holy Light was the last place he would have expected. Its grounds should have been hallowed, and undead beings couldn’t manifest there. Desecrating it would have required rare knowledge of the dark arts and a complete disregard for the sacred.

Precisely what a powerful necromancer would be capable of, especially with some time to prepare.

Gareth dismissed the soldier and began working out a plan based on the new knowledge. His team had cleared several key areas, moving swiftly from one skirmish to the next, purging pockets of undead and making sure there were no ambushes. The Royal Army barracks, however, had already been overrun. Gareth’s forces had reached it earlier and deemed it too far south to be a viable control point for such a large number of undead soldiers. The market district was similarly impossible, as it was close to the castle, and Gareth would have noticed any such presence. That left one location.

“The Temple,” he said aloud. His men looked at him, and he could see the same disgust he felt reflected on their faces. This was an abomination that couldn’t be allowed to stand.

Gareth lifted his spear, pointing it toward the towering spires barely visible through the mist and smoke. “The necromancer has defiled the most holy of places. He seeks to bring death to all within Treon and to do so by spitting upon the Light. Men of the Revolution! You, who swore oaths to the Grand Marshal! We will take back the temple tonight!” His words were met with fierce cheers. Even exhausted, Gareth’s men understood the gravity of what was happening.

Just as he turned, ready to lead the charge, a shadow detached itself from the rooftops above and dropped down in front of him, landing gracefully and silently despite the cobblestones. Gareth reacted, instinctively preparing to unleash his fury, only to stop short when he recognized the figure before him.

Yarea, the elven maiden, had quickly risen to prominence within the ranks of the Eastern Army after being freed. Her reputation for unmatched skill and sharp tactics had spread wide among the troops, from what he had been able to glean.

She straightened, a small, knowing smile playing at the edges of her lips as she surveyed the gathered soldiers.

“General Doomspear,” she greeted. “I’ll join you in this crusade. You need every able blade, and I’m more than ready to face whatever dark magic the enemy has brought into the city.”

Gareth eyed her, taking in her slight, elegant form, which was so much at odds with the fierce determination radiating from her. Despite her frail-looking appearance, he didn’t doubt her abilities. Beneath that delicate façade lay the reflexes of a predator. Even just standing there, he could tell she was coiled and ready to lay waste to the enemy.

“Glad to have you,” Gareth replied. He gestured toward his men, signaling them to form ranks around him and Yarea. “If what I suspect is right, they’ll have positioned guards around the temple, likely augmented by the necromancer’s thralls. You’ll lead the second line and handle any flanking undead. Clear a path if they press too close.”

She dipped her head, silver hair cascading to frame her features perfectly. “I will follow your command,” she said, gripping the hilt of her curved blade.

The air grew colder as they approached, and an unnatural chill settled over them, thick with the bitter tang of dark magic—it seemed that the necromancer had truly given up on hiding.

Smoke and miasma coiled around the streets, nearly disguising the shadowed forms of undead guards stationed along the temple’s perimeter. The dark magic surrounding them made the hairs on Gareth’s neck prickle.

There are no living humans here. Was I wrong? Is the necromancer acting on his own?

Without a word, he signaled to Yarea, who nodded and moved away with a few of the more subtle men alongside most of the remaining shadows.

She slipped through the darkened streets, reaching much closer than he would have been able to. In one smooth motion, she drew her blade and dispatched the first thrall before it even noticed her approach. A shadow grabbed the body before it could fall, swallowing it whole.

The spirits might not be a good matchup against a necromancer, especially so far from their summoner, but they still have their utility.

More undead fell as the men got to work, aided by the elementals in maintaining secrecy. Despite their incredible resilience, zombies were still subject to the laws of physics and couldn’t attack without limbs. Hacking at the corpses wasn’t fun, but it ensured that they couldn’t be trapped within the temple.

Before long, the undead guarding the entrance noticed the disappearances, letting out ghastly shrieks to alert their master. The temple’s heavy doors creaked open, and unnatural darkness poured forth, spilling out with the stench of rot and decay that seemed to invigorate the zombies.

Gareth gritted his teeth. “In the name of the Grand Marshal, purge the foul creatures!” He charged forward, spear crackling with lightning, and sliced through the first line while more surged from the temple’s entrance. Behind him, his men fought fiercely, pressing onward despite the creatures swarming from every side.

Yarea, despite starting near the gates, found herself fighting at his side, cutting down any undead who dared attack from behind. Gareth couldn’t help but notice how she moved, gliding from one target to the next with lethal grace. Her presence was a steadying force for the men, giving them the confidence to press forward.

The oppressive darkness thickened as they neared the entrance, and Gareth could feel the necromancer’s power intensifying. The closer he got, the more he realized his initial assessment was correct. There was no way this much preparation could have been done in a hurry. It was now just a matter of understanding whether the loyalists had directed the whole thing—and thus needed to be purged—or they were unwitting accomplices.

Thrusting his spear into the ground, he channeled a surge of Pure Lightning that illuminated the square and charred the remaining zombies, opening the path to the temple.

“No points for guessing it’s a trap,” Yarea murmured, drawing a snort from Gareth.

Inside the temple’s grand hall, the once-pristine marble floors were cracked and stained with blood, and the sacred symbols of the Holy Light were twisted and marred with foul scribbles.

A cloaked figure stood before the desecrated altar at the far end of the hall. The necromancer’s hollow eyes glowed with an eerie green light, and his twisted smile revealed the malice lurking within.

But Gareth’s attention was caught by two other figures standing just behind the necromancer. Clad in rich, elegant robes embroidered with symbols of old nobility, the two men starkly contrasted the macabre scene around them. Their faces were vacant, skin stretched taut over bone, and their eyes stared forward, unblinking, as if they were puppets held upright by strings.

Gareth’s stomach twisted. He knew them—Barons Luxfield and Langley. Intelligence had described them as Count Pollus’s right and left-hand men and among the few he respected enough to delegate. Gareth still suspected a dark pact between them and this foul mage, but seeing them standing lifelessly like statues, he couldn’t help but feel pity.

“What have you done to them?” He demanded, his voice ringing out in the desecrated hall. Rage simmered in his gut, barely kept in check.

The necromancer’s mouth curled into a mocking grin. “Oh, good knight, you care too much,” he sneered. “These two fools thought they could use me—me!—as a mere pawn to solve their manpower issues.” He spread his arms wide. “They captured me as I tried to enter Volten, a mere traveler by their eyes, no doubt eager to bend my power to their petty schemes. But once they let me in, I quickly grew my forces. I let them think they had control—until they could no longer contain me.”

Gareth’s eyes narrowed, every fiber of his being vibrating with fury. “You defiled a holy place and turned Volten into a nightmare. And you used the naivety of two fools to do it. You’ve disguised your presence through the mist, masking the stench of your magic.”

The necromancer laughed, his voice echoing off the walls. “Astute of you to notice, sir,” he mocked. “Yes, even spirits can be deceived. Oh, yes. I can see them lurking even now, but they know better than to face me openly. No one wondered why the mist lingered in a port city. These fools gave me access to just enough corpses to reach the Expert tier and finally conceal miasma. To think I spent years hidden in the Darkwood, escaping monsters and voidlings. Ah, but it’s in the past. Now, I have my army, and you—you are far too late.”

As the necromancer continued his taunt, Gareth noticed dark energy pooling beneath the floor, swirling in an invisible whirlpool of foul mana. His senses flared in alarm, and he recognized the telltale signs of a spell building up.

Without waiting for another word, Gareth raised his spear. He gathered all his strength and thrust it forward, unleashing a massive bolt of lightning aimed directly at the necromancer. Its sheer force of shattered stone pillars and sent chunks of debris raining down.

The necromancer’s laughter cut off as the bolt reached him, but he didn’t move to dodge it. Instead, a ripple of dark energy surged through the floor as cracks exploded from beneath his feet. A massive construct began to rise from the broken stone— an undead colossus formed from the desecrated bones buried beneath the temple. The giant skeleton reared up, its ribs wrapping around the necromancer in a protective embrace just as Gareth’s attack struck.

The lightning collided with the undead giant’s ribcage, and for a brief moment, the entire temple was bathed in an ethereal purple light. Bones cracked and splintered, but the skeletal guardian held firm, shielding the necromancer at the cost of some of its mass. It absorbed the brunt of the lightning bolt, though its bones showed signs of strain as dark fissures spread along its ribs.

Behind him, Gareth heard Yarea curse like a sailor.

Chapter 135 - Smite Thy Enemies - Gareth 7

Gareth locked eyes with the necromancer, who smirked from within the protective shell beast even as more corpses emerged from the hole, spreading out around him to guard their master from every angle.

"That won't last long." He warned, staring at where his attack had left charred bone behind.

The necromancer chuckled darkly. "And so the rebels come, charging blindly into their deaths. This city will be mine, and its defenders will rise as my soldiers. You are no different than the rest! Just thralls waiting to serve."

Gareth's resolve to end the man only hardened, and he stretched out his senses to grasp how an Expert had managed to defend himself against his attack. Necromancers were notoriously hard to put down once they had time to build up and could reliably punch above their weight, but at the admission of the man himself, he had arrived in Volten only after the loyalist forces did.

There was something else going on that he didn't understand.

"Listen well," he growled. "You've defiled holy ground and played with forces you can't hope to understand. Whatever power you think you have—" he lifted his spear, pointing it at the creature towering above him, "it won't be enough."

He pointedly did not look at where Yarea had disappeared during the commotion. Even if he didn't manage to pierce the bones, she'd deal with the man. He wasn't a lich yet—though he was getting close to the power needed to transform into one—which meant he could be killed by a blade much like any other mortal.

Behind him, the living soldiers prepared to face the skeletons. Though exhausted, they felt the fire of righteous fury, and with Gareth leading them, they knew they would take back the heart of their city. Such was the effect of having a Master guide them.

The skeletal colossus moved then, fully emerging from the ground and coming to stand at twenty feet. It lumbered forward and reached with its massive arms to crush them. Gareth could have avoided it, but that would have left his men in its path, so he stood his ground, biding his time until the last moment. There, he thought, spotting a rib that seemed to have suffered more under his lightning—a weak point in the strands of mana anchoring the necromancer's control.

He surged forward, lightning coiling around his spear. Channeling the energy outward, he launched arcs at the bone colossus. The bolts struck true, shattering smaller, brittle bones and illuminating the temple with violet light.

His outwardly flashy display successfully disguised his true purpose.

He ducked low as the colossus's arm swung down with a thunderous whoosh, sending another bolt upward, aiming it at the arm's joint. The purple lightning hit the elbow, deflecting its swing just enough for him to close the distance. With a quick twist, he repositioned, spear raised to aim directly at the necromancer.

The man, clearly alarmed, shifted back, allowing more bone to cover his position and obscuring his sight. In that split second, Gareth adjusted his aim and lunged straight at the weakened rib.

The impact shattered the bone, and as Gareth drove his spear deeper, he unleashed another surge of electrical current, forcing it through the entire construct. Blue and violet lightning streaked through the cracks, snaking along the creature's bony frame and illuminating the runes carved into its bones. Sparks erupted as the arc reached the necromancer himself, who let out a scream.

Foul curses spilled from his mouth as he forced the colossus to rear back, swinging its massive limbs in a frenzy. Bony spikes erupted from its surface, each sharpened to a razor's edge, and the ground around Gareth trembled as the creature lashed out.

At the same time, the smaller skeletons guarding the temple fell into a maddened frenzy, their bones clattering as they descended upon the soldiers. Discipline held firm among his men, though, and they maintained their ranks, using [Bashes] and [Thrusts] to drive back the smaller undead. Yet even in their tight formation, the soldiers struggled. Their fatigue began to take its toll, and often, they were forced to withdraw men who had been snatched by bony claws or injured by the frenzy of flailing skeletons, weakening the line.

Gareth could spare only the attention necessary to send a bolt their way, charring a good portion of the skeletons and allowing his men some respite. His reserves were stretched thin as he continued battling the necromancer.

To think that even as a Master, I can waste so much mana. I haven’t felt this low since I took Stonebridge.

Despite the disarray among both groups, the core of the formation held. The undead were fierce but uncoordinated, and their attacks were dulled by Gareth's men's rigid adherence to their tactics. He knew, though, that this balance would last only so long; he needed to end this quickly.

Before him, the necromancer screamed himself hoarse, his skin now blistered and charred. But he was far from defeated. Clenching his hands, he poured more of his corrupted mana into the creature, strengthening its defenses and knitting his own flesh back. Despite the pain he must have felt, the necromancer's eyes gleamed with spite as he threw his head back, laughing in wild defiance.

"Do you see, foolish knight?" he crowed. "You think you're so powerful, yet you are all worms writhing beneath my grasp. I have turned this holy place into my sanctuary, my fortress! I have centuries’ worth of material! Nothing can stop me here!”

Gareth didn't bother bantering. He wouldn't give the man more time to recover.

He charged again, attacking the creature's legs, where the bone was cracked and brittle from the previous surge. He knew he'd have to break the colossus down piece by piece, as it had proven capable of resisting his attacks. Anything more powerful than what he'd used, his men would perish too, and he couldn’t afford more than one big attack.

Every strike chipped away at the creature's legs, sending shocks through its entire frame. The necromancer, visibly straining to sustain the rate at which he was pumping mana into the construct, grimaced as Gareth's strikes came faster and harder. Small fissures spread up the creature's leg, traveling toward its torso.

The creature staggered back as Gareth drove his spear into another fracture, reaching a level of damage that couldn't be mended with more mana. Shrieking, the necromancer commanded the colossus to retaliate.

The creature's massive, bony arm crashed down with terrible speed. Gareth braced, smashing the fist aside with his spear through physical strength alone and opening the way to the torso.

In response, the necromancer's guttural chant accelerated, and bolts of foul energy flew from the creature's spikes. Gareth's skin tingled with the palpable corruption in the air, but he merely upped his aura, wreathing himself in purple electricity.

"Enough of this!" the necromancer screeched. He forced the colossus to take a defensive stance, positioning itself between Gareth and the altar. Then, with a furious scream, he abandoned the construct, leaving it behind to earn some time. The skeleton lunged, now moving without being constrained by the need to protect a squishy human, while its master ran for the altar.

Gareth's eyes darted from the man to the construct, and he found himself trapped. If he chased the necromancer, he'd leave his men to take the creature on, and they'd undoubtedly suffer significant losses. If he fought the construct, he’d give the enemy time to work even fouler magics.

Unfortunately, he had a duty to fulfill, so he prepared to unleash everything he had left, hoping his men would survive the consequences.

An immense current of mana flooded the temple as the air ionized and the marble floors melted to slag. Angry lightning arced around him, and Gareth released all his restraint.

The night became day as [The Storm King's Retribution] pierced the heavens.

For but a moment, Gareth thought he could feel a warm hand on his shoulder. Gold filled his vision, and he knew things would be all right.

Once the light faded and he could see again, he was glad to find that his men were seemingly unharmed and that little to nothing remained of the bone construct. Nothing was also left of Volten's ancient painted dome, and the entirety of the temple's ceiling was simply gone. Above, the clouds had parted, and the moon shone through.

A triumphant sound brought Gareth back to the present, and he was stunned to see that the necromancer was still alive.

Missing both of his legs, which had been cauterized by lightning, but alive. He had somehow managed to reach the altar before Gareth could unleash his attack, and though he had paid for it, the protections inlaid around it had protected him from the worst.

Dark, foreboding miasma swirled around him, and the man cackled in delight, apparently not feeling any pain. "Yes! Yes! It worked! It just needed a sufficient power source! I have reached beyond the veil!”

The mana coalesced into a singular point, a pure black marble, which the man lifted in delight, appearing poised to swallow.

Or he would have had a gleaming silver dagger not found its place between his eyes.

The necromancer wasn't afforded even the dignity to understand he was dead before his head was vaporized.

In a richly decorated room of Volten's castle, Gareth sat, a crystal goblet in hand, its rim resting idly on his lip as he considered the wine—deep, red, and fragrant. He had requisitioned the label from the late Count's collection. It was a vintage brought out only to celebrate alliances or great victories, and though he couldn't claim to have been flawless, he felt it fitting nonetheless.

He drank, finding its strong taste a bracing comfort after the gruesome battle.

The highest-ranking officers of the Eastern Army gathered around him for an overdue meeting. With an iron-straight posture, General Oz settled into his chair, lips pressed together tightly.

Commander Sparrow shifted uncomfortably, already bristling to get the debrief underway and get back out there, where his presence was needed. He was young, barely in his twenties. He'd learn that some things couldn't be fixed, no matter how hard he worked.

Oz, as the nominal leader of the army, began the meeting. "The city's been searched thoroughly," he started. "Our men cleared the streets, markets, and sewers. Not a single remnant of the undead or the necromancer's influence remains. Whatever he summoned died with him."

"Excellent," Yarea murmured. "We are fortunate that he didn't have the time or the inclination to develop a cult. The last time I took part in rooting one out, it took years before we stopped being attacked by rotting corpses."

Gareth raised his glass slightly, his expression more thoughtful than celebratory. "Arrogance," he explained. "He was far too jealous of his power to share it. Even if the Barons hadn't found him, he wouldn't have taken apprentices until he was sure of his supremacy." He watched the men nod in agreement. Yarea instead gave a soft, musical laugh.

"Always is the way with such men," she replied, lips quirking in a half-smile. In moments like these, Gareth remembered elves weren't quite mortal like humans. Kin to fae, they were, and their approach to life showed it.

Oz leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. "Then our next move is clear. We need to re-establish the gates and bring order back to the streets. The eastern districts are the priority, and the best way to gain their trust is to return the docks to stability. Luckily, it's where the local patrols were heaviest, which means the necromancer didn't have the chance to seed his creatures. We'll start by bringing laborers and the fishing guilds back to work—their livelihoods sustain Volten, and we can't keep the city fed on its winter stores for long. Once they feel safe, the rest of the populace will follow."

The general's words hung in the air, and all eyes turned to Gareth, who had refused a role in the new administration. He set his wine down and looked at the dark marble.

It was smooth and chillingly inert, yet he hadn't gotten rid of it. He rolled it slowly before answering the unspoken question.

"I'll leave Volten in your hands, General," he said calmly. "My place is at the Grand Marshal's side."

His eyes never left the marble.

Chapter 136 - War Rooming - Leonard 43

The war room that had once been Ficklewood's town hall buzzed with activity. Maps of the region lay unfurled across a massive oak table, marked with red and black tokens denoting friendly and enemy forces. Wood smoke still lingered from the recent battle, mingling with the earthy aroma of damp leather and the sweat of those unfortunate soldiers who had yet to get their turn in the showers.

Having experienced this situation several times, Leonard could admit that Ficklewood was beautiful, and its buildings showed a surprising dedication to local art. He'd have to remember to encourage the citizens to keep at it.

He didn't doubt that Damien was carefully monitoring the cultural development of the conquered territories to achieve maximum social cohesion, but that didn't mean everything had to be manufactured. Organically developed art was refreshing to see.

Sitting at the head of the table, Leonard took in new information as it was presented but kept silent, not feeling the need to micromanage everything. He had people for that.

Amelia casually leaned forward at his left side, her dark robes letting just enough show to accentuate her figure and lead all eyes to her. She held an air of calculated detachment, though her piercing gaze betrayed that she was deep in thought. It was half natural and half performance, but Leonard wondered how conscious his friend was of it after so long.

Opposite her was Neer, occupying a place of honor after defeating the enemy general in a duel. She still displayed the signs of her victory but had chosen to forgo healing for now. Leonard could feel her faith in him growing stronger than ever and knew it wouldn’t be long before she could rank up. He was curious to see what his influence would lead to.

Across from her sat David Longs, whose hair was disheveled but whose posture was impeccable. He had proven his loyalty once but had yet to find glory again. Leonard had granted him a seat because he could feel his desire to be useful. Though the path ahead was mostly planned out, he decided it'd be best to have someone who hadn't been part of its inception look it over to spot any weak points. It also helped that David had worked hard to earn the trust of his men and was now one of the most beloved commanders in the army.

"The advanced corps reports significant gains," David began. "They've several bands of injured soldiers, along with their camp followers. Most seem to have been abandoned during the retreat, but we're pretty sure some are just deserters. They're universally frightened, hungry, and disorganized. It makes me think Pollus left them behind to slow us down further."

Leonard's lips pressed into a thin line. "And what of their potential usefulness? Are they worth integrating, or will they cause more trouble than they're worth?” He didn’t like thinking this way, but time was a valuable currency at the moment.

David folded his arms. "The suspected dissidents are a mixed bag. Some are loyalists who couldn't match the pace of retreat and probably realized they would be left behind as spoilers and took matters into their own hands. I ensured they'd be kept separately, but others are civilians forced into service with the bare minimum of training. As for the wounded soldiers and their followers…" He hesitated. "Pepperhof genuinely broke many. I doubt they want to oppose us, but they could slow us down or compromise morale."

Amelia took the moment of silence to interject. "The wounded soldiers should be interrogated. I doubt they'd have information we don't, but often, nobles let things slip around their subordinates that spies pay in blood to learn. The willing can be absorbed and put through the training process, and the rest should be neutralized. As for the camp followers, they could also provide useful information. People talk when they're desperate."

Neer grunted her agreement, her tusks glinting as she nodded. "But keep the soldiers in chains for now. Loyalty forged through fear can break as quickly as it's made, and I wouldn't put it past the count to have put several infiltrators among them. Actually, all the groups could have infiltrators. I retract my agreement."

Amused, Leonard watched as the three squabbled over the benefits of integrating some people, as indicated by their doctrine, and the risks of having some saboteurs among their numbers. It was a real problem, but it wouldn't matter for the coming campaign, as he had no intention of spending months whittling down Hassel's wards.

"Even if we put the men through the training to integrate them, they won't be ready to join us before we have completed our takeover of the Duchy," Leonard finally interjected, putting the matter to rest. "Now, what can you tell me about Volten? The last I heard, Gareth was victorious, but I don't want to turn back to eradicate a necropolis just because we were careless."

“The diviners indicate he's completed the cleanup operations," David replied. "He managed to root out all the necromancer's caches and secured the city. All with minimal losses among his forces."

Leonard hummed in satisfaction. He could feel his hold over Volten slowly spread as his men influenced the population, but it was better to receive confirmation. [Faith] was still an unreliable power.

The room fell into contemplative silence as Leonard studied the map, his fingers drumming lightly against the wood. "The enemy's retreat has put us in a precarious position," he said. “By now, they must have completed the pullback to Hassel. I want us there before they can establish physical lines of communication with the reinforcements."

"Reinforcements that will come sooner rather than later, I imagine," David grumbled.

Amelia nodded. "Reports from my shadows in the capital confirm as much. The King has ordered the mustering of a vast army, aiming to sweep south and reclaim the region in one decisive stroke. I don't expect them to make haste, but they will come."

"A kingdom's resources wasted on corruption and arrogance," Neer growled, disgusted. Leonard knew she would have preferred to face a more honorable enemy, but they wouldn't be here if that had been the case.

"Which leaves us to the coming siege.” He concluded.

"A long siege will give the capital's army time to arrive," David repeated. "And Hassel is no ordinary city. Its defenses are formidable, and its supplies could last for months. More if they have the time to grab the surrounding towns’ resources and don't bother taking in their people."

“Which means we must not act as they expect," Leonard said. His gaze swept the room. “We must take the city before they have time to fully prepare. No matter what defenses await us, Hassel will be ours within the week."

Amelia's smile widened at the certainty in his tone, and Neer's eyes gleamed with anticipation. David tapped a finger against the map, already working through the possibilities. No one doubted the veracity of his statement.

Satisfied in their trust, Leonard leaned back with a warm smile. "Once we take it, the King's forces will hesitate, buying us the time to fortify our hold on the region. We do not have the luxury of using this siege as a training tool for the army."

The officers nodded, understanding the stakes. They then began outlining their next steps, conscious that every decision was critical to the rebellion's fate.

Leonard listened intently, the faintest hint of a smile playing on his lips. His plans were much more ambitious than most realized, but even he was feeling anticipation at the closing act of the Hetnia Campaign.

Once the most immediate decisions were made, the specifics of the assault were all that was left. All three commanders turned to him, as he had made it clear he intended to lead the charge.

Leonard began slowly. "The greatest threat isn't Hassel's wards or the army regrouping within them." His gaze swept across the faces of his generals. "It's the Flying Vessels."

It was the simple truth. The behemoths were parked within the city, and though he could personally deal with them, they would take his attention away from protecting the army, which could result in immense losses.

Leonard continued. "Three of them, if our intel is correct. The pride of the Duchy's aerial fleet. I want our artillery prepared to suppress them, or at least to take the Griffin Knights out of the picture."

"And if they stay holed up behind Hassel's wards? I doubt they'll risk a direct attack, but they could be used as stationary artillery. I remember the report stating that the city's protections are one-way. Their efficiency would go down, but it'd be hard to deal with such a battery.” David asked.

Leonard nodded. "That's the problem. They won't risk exposing themselves unless they're confident in their advantage. Pollus is much smarter than Luster-Treon and knows that even if he holds onto the city long enough, his head will fly if it costs him the Airships."

Amelia stood up, circling the map. "So we need a way to get them out of the wards. If Treon's fate taught them anything, we might have to present a very tempting target."

"True," Leonard replied, "but that fight was different. Treon's defenses were weak, and the ship was almost unsupported. Here, they'll have the wards and an army of mages to protect them. If I'm occupied neutralizing the vessels, they could unleash hell on the army below."

David leaned forward and placed his finger on the map. "We could attempt a diversion to draw them out. They might be tempted to send them out if we make it look like we are trying to encircle the city."

"They won't bite," Amelia interjected with a grimace that somehow managed to look pouty. "Pollus is not foolish enough to fall for anything that wouldn't cost us, and after the show I put on during the battle of Pepperhof, they will be even more cautious."

That had been a calculated gamble on her part. Breaking the enemy's will to fight had granted them a significant advantage, but it could come back to bite them now.

The room fell silent as Leonard rubbed his chin, waiting for his decision. "Then we need a way to force them out. The only thing I can think will be enough is if we can find a way to make it look like we are aiming to disrupt the leyline that runs below the city. Pollus might be forced to act then."

Amelia stiffened suddenly, her eyes narrowing as if she were listening to a voice only she could hear. The room grew tense as her demeanor shifted from contemplative to alarmed. Leonard turned to her, sensing the change.

"Amelia," he said evenly. "What is it?"

Her purple eyes flicked to his, and with an audible exhale, she relaxed. That only made him warier. "Garva's navy has begun mustering."

A murmur rippled through the room. Neer growled low in her throat, and David's brow furrowed.

Leonard's expression remained unreadable as he processed what that meant. "Explain."

"My shadows observed an increased effort to arm the fleet, and movement from the captains makes me believe that their fleet will finish mobilizing within the day. They might be aiming to launch a direct assault on Treon."

"That's madness. They'd have to cross the Scales and all the fortifications—" Neer echoed in disbelief.

"—which aren't ready," Amelia finished grimly. "The defenses along the Scales are months away from completion. If Garva acts now, they will mow through them. Our men will be forced to return to hit-and-run tactics.”

David leaned back, his fingers drumming against the edge of the table. "If they get to Treon and, Light forsake it, they take it, they'll have a foothold to attack us from the west while the Kingdom presses from the north. We'll be caught between two fires."

Leonard let out a slow breath, knowing better than to give in to the setback. "And if they succeed in Treon, it opens the way to the southern territories."

"Which means we're running out of time," Amelia finished for him. "We can't afford a prolonged campaign here while Garva makes its move."

Neer slammed a fist against the table, rattling the tokens. "Then we hit Hassel now. Hard. We can't afford to wait for perfect conditions."

David immediately shook his head. "They are forcing our hand. This must be Nevielle's doing. Only he has the authority to order Duke Garva to mobilize beyond the King, and Vasily doesn't trust the old warhawk enough to risk him taking a bite out of Hetnia.”

It made sense, but the enemy was operating on incomplete information.

"We'll divide our focus. Amelia, move the bulk of your shadows from Volten to follow Garva's movements. If they're preparing to attack Treon, I want to know exactly how far along they are. David, draft contingency plans for a simultaneous strike on Hassel and a defensive maneuver at Treon. Neer, hasten the army's march on Hassel. I'll work with the diviners to locate the leyline. I want us at the city’s gates before tomorrow’s end.”

The generals nodded and left, their resolve returning under Leonard's decisive tone. He remained behind, staring at the map with a faint frown.

Chapter 137 - Assessments are for... - Leonard 44

The camp sprawled like a living organism across the fields outside Hassel, its fires dotting the landscape with flickering amber lights. The night was cool, and the faint hum of distant magic from the city’s war wards tinged the air with unease. Leonard stood at the entrance of his command tent, his features obscured by the illusion of an ordinary young man with unremarkable brown hair and plain, slightly worn leather armor. He exhaled slowly, letting the transformation settle, and stepped into the camp.

The revolutionary army had arrived at Hassel’s vicinity just a couple of hours before and found that the divination division’s intel was correct. Pollus had wasted no time raising the city’s protections, and even with a glance, Leonard could tell that battering them with his artillery would prove fruitless. The leyline’s energy would sustain the wards as long as needed, as it had when attacked by the Incursion.

He had considered several options in his tent, weighing bold strategies against practical limitations. Ultimately, he’d chosen to continue with his initial plan. But the operation could wait for the moment, as it would take at least a few hours to scry the leyline’s precise location. Right now, he needed to hear from the people who would follow him into battle.

It is becoming a tradition, but I do not mind. I can feel their belief, and some would consider that to be enough, but I won’t allow myself to become blinded. If there are issues among my men, I need to know.

Making his way through the camp without hurry, Leonard passed several groups of soldiers gathered around campfires. Occasionally, he’d slow down, but a cursory observation told him the men were simply decompressing after a hard march.

Near a fire pit, a grizzled veteran was regaling a group of recruits with tales of past campaigns. Leonard lingered for a moment, catching snippets of the story—an exaggerated account of a skirmish shortly before the battle of Stonebridge. The recruits hung on every word, their faces alight with awe. Smiling faintly, he moved on.

Further down the camp, he stopped to speak with a pair of gunners who were meticulously cleaning their firearms. “How are you feeling about the siege?” he asked with a poorly hidden tremor, appearing as nothing but a greenhorn seeking reassurance.

The older of the two, a stocky man with calloused hands and a few streaks of gray in his beard, shrugged. “Hassel’s a tough nut, no doubt about it. Those wards are something else. But we’ve got the Grand Marshal, don’t we? I ‘ave seen him take down General Locke with my eyes. Hell, I’ve seen him bring an entire army back to life. I doubt this will trouble him overmuch.”

The younger marksman, barely more than a boy, nodded vigorously. “Aye, he’ll figure something out. Always does. Trust the Hero, and you’ll never fail.”

Leonard thanked them and moved on, pleased to feel the tiny spark of [Faith] grow. Still, there was an undercurrent of doubt among some soldiers—a skepticism he couldn’t blame them for. Taking Hassel wasn’t a matter of brute force, as its defenses were unmatched. Most veterans knew that even with his incredible power, he couldn’t smash through them. The resulting cascade would vaporize much of the city and the army.

As he continued his inspection, he was drawn to a lively group gathered around a bubbling pot. At their center was Oliver, who had the complete attention of his companions. Leonard paused at the edge of the circle, leaning against a crate to listen unnoticed.

His squire had changed over the course of the campaign. Gone was the brash, overeager boy who had first begged Leonard for a chance to prove himself. In his place stood a young man tempered by experience. His edges softened, but his resolve sharpened. He sat cross-legged, gesturing animatedly as he spoke, his voice carrying the easy authority of someone who had earned respect and knew it.

“The Griffin Knights will be a challenge, sure,” Oliver said, addressing his squad. “But think about what they know of our capabilities. I doubt they’ll dare take to the skies, knowing our mage corps are just itching to show off. I think Lady Amelia’s performance lit a fire in them.”

A young woman that Leonard recognized as one whose soul he had to pull back from the beyond countered. “But Hassel’s different from Pepperhof, isn’t it? They’ve got several airships, and I’m sure they would use them to great effect on any other occasion, but unless we can breach the wards, they won’t have to take to the air. Why would they fight us when they can just wait us out?”

Oliver didn’t flinch. “Sir Leonard will handle the Vessels,” he said firmly, his absolute belief evident to all. “Our job is to deal with the ground troops that are sure to come when the wards are broken.” Then, seeing that she was still unconvinced, he added, “Lady Amelia was certain it was only a matter of time before the Air Force attacked. I know better than to bet against her.”

The girl sat back, apparently appeased. Another of his companions patted him on the back. “And we’ll follow you wherever you take us, oh apprentice of the Hero.”

Oliver flushed but grinned. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Unless things go cock up, we shouldn’t have to do much beyond being ready for deployment for now. Things might change depending on how Count Pollus reacts to the first probing strikes, but I still expect the city will be ours before too long.”

The group murmured their agreement, and Leonard felt a swell of pride. Oliver had grown into a leader in his own right, able to rally others and keep their spirits grounded in reality. It was a pity he hadn’t earned his knighthood yet, but he had a good feeling about the coming fight.

Despite what many hope for, I doubt Pollus will surrender, even with the wards down. No, it’s more likely he’ll try to draw us into a bloody slog of urban combat as he slowly retreats into the inner city.

As the conversation turned to lighter topics, Leonard slipped away, leaving a message in Oliver’s tent. The night’s walk had been productive. The people were ready, and their morale was bolstered not just by their faith in him but also by their resolve. They would need it if what he believed would happen came to pass.

Satisfied, Leonard raised a hand, weaving a bubble of magic around himself. The air shimmered faintly as the spell took hold, muting the sounds outside and ensuring the coming conversation would remain private. A moment later, Amelia stepped into the barrier, her dark eyes meeting Leonard’s.

“Report.”

Amelia brushed a strand of hair from her face, her cloak rustling softly as she crossed her arms. “The harassment campaign in the south is going well. Captain Charry has proven resourceful, targeting supply lines and forcing the enemy to split their forces to protect their logistics. The disruption has slowed their preparations, but they’re still not far from the initial schedule. If they regroup, their numbers will be a problem.”

Leonard nodded, his expression unreadable. “And Treon?”

“Fortified,” she replied. “Gerard has done an admirable job. The city is secure, and he’s turned its natural harbor into something formidable. Even if Garva’s navy strikes, they’ll find taking it a costly endeavor. The new special force is ready there, too.”

Leonard tilted his head, considering her words. “How long until they can put the city to siege?”

“About a week,” Amelia replied. “That’s assuming the harassment doesn’t slow them further. But their captains are pushing hard, and if they manage to consolidate, they’ll be able to break through the defensive blockade.”

“That should be enough time to take Hassel,” Leonard said, his gaze shifting to the city in the distance. “Though I doubt news of our success here will reach them in time to stop their advance.”

Amelia studied him for a moment, her expression thoughtful. “You think we should strike immediately.”

“I do,” Leonard replied. “We both know it will take us days to work through the lower city. Even if we forsake our limitations and stop caring about collateral damage, we can’t move on to the inner city before cleaning up behind us, or we’ll be constantly ambushed. I will personally begin the operations tomorrow morning as soon as the seers find the leyline.”

Amelia’s lips pressed into a thin line. “And Treon? Should I go and take control of the defenses? Gerard and I don’t always see eye to eye, but—”

Leonard shook his head. “No. If you believe his preparations are enough, then trust him. Your talents are better served here, coordinating the assault while I lead the way forward. Gerard can hold Treon.”

I doubt they’ll breach the wards, and even if they do, they won’t be able to take the city with the men they have. I must trust Gerard, Lia, and Jean to do their duties… And if they really need it, I might be able to offer some help even from here. But I doubt that I’ll have to. Duke Garva is a thorough man, but he won’t expect what I’ve left behind for him.

She nodded, though her posture remained tense. “Understood.”

They stood in silence for a moment, the massive city of Hassel dominating the landscape before them. Leonard would have never believed he’d be plotting to take it even just a year ago, having been part of the defenders during the Incursion. But the bitter anger within him wouldn’t allow anything less.

“The wards are strong enough that they held against the void for months,” Amelia said quietly, “Are you so sure the disruption of the leyline will be enough? And that it will move Pollus to send out the Air Force?”

She is genuinely worried about leaving Treon defenseless. She wouldn’t have said Gerard was prepared enough if she didn’t believe it, so what is this about? Hmm, the only thing that comes to mind is that she might be concerned about Jean. But really, the girl is probably enough on her own to hold the city.

It was an uncharacteristic display of uncertainty for a woman who had been through hell and back. Literally.

Leonard sometimes forgot that not everyone had the benefit of feeling the currents of fate as he did. “Had it been any other commander, I wouldn’t have gambled, but Pollus served at the Death Fort for decades. He knows the importance of keeping the leyline active. The fort has remained impregnable through the centuries because of its ancient protections, and he personally ordered hundreds, if not thousands, of men to their deaths to keep them powered. He won’t have any other choice.”

There, that should be clear enough. She knows better than anyone how people are slaves to their past. Pollus is an experienced commander, but this is not an easy situation. It’s very unlikely he’ll divert from what he knows.

Amelia didn’t react, but he knew her well enough to know she was pacified when she changed the subject of her inquiry. “Have you decided what to do with the airships? I still think that dealing with them personally would—”

“I can always do that if it comes to it,” Leonard interrupted. “But we must use the opportunity. If things go to plan—and I’m confident they will, no matter the setback—we’ll skip the outer city entirely. The surprise factor alone will be significant, and once news trickles down to the Royal Army, they will be much more reticent to face us directly.”

Amelia smirked faintly. “You just want to show off your toys.”

“That is part of the equation, yes.” Leonard chuckled, “But it is true that we won’t get a better chance. I’m not foolish enough to believe Pollus will be anywhere near the walls, but even just gaining a day will allow us to do so much more.”

Especially if Prime Minister Neville has given the overall command to whom I think he did. Amelia’s shadows know better than to get close to him, which would make him the best candidate.

Putting thoughts of the upcoming reunion aside, Leonard set his gaze on Hassel.

Chapter 138 - Do what you have to Do - Leonard 45

Leonard strode through the camp with purpose, his crimson cloak fluttering behind him majestically. The sun had yet to appear, but a hum of activity surrounded him—soldiers tended to weapons, commanders pored over maps, and the occasional burst of laughter or song rang out as men tried to stave off the weight of their nerves.

This time, he didn't stop to speak with anyone, and no one impeded his march to the Divination Division.

Warded tents stood in a crescent formation, guarded by the Security Forces. Inside, the air buzzed with restrained energy as mages worked tirelessly, updating enemy movements and creating a real-time map of their surroundings. Leonard slipped through the entrance of the main tent, his presence drawing a brief pause in the strangely serene atmosphere before the men resumed their tasks.

At the center of it all, Oliver knelt beside a low table, talking quietly with the lead diviner. His brow was furrowed with concentration as he nodded along. Considering the message he had received claimed the leylines had been located, he imagined his squire was being filled in.

It was a good idea to involve him. He’s been looking for a way to regain his honor, and being sent in my stead to debrief the diviners shows everyone I still trust him.

"Oliver," Leonard interrupted.

He stood immediately, "Grand Marshal, sir. We have it."

It was an overly formal way of greeting him, but he didn't begrudge the boy. This was a momentous occasion, and while they would forever have a deep connection, Oliver would achieve his knighthood after this mission. Appearing to disdain the chain of command even before he got elevated to the position of Captain in public would be a bad look.

Leonard beckoned him closer and gestured for him to follow, trusting that he would know the relevant information and not wanting to waste more time. They stepped out of the tent and into the cool pre-dawn air, walking until the constant buzz of activity retreated. When they were far enough, Leonard stopped and turned to face him.

"I've settled on a course of action," he began evenly. "You must understand that this mission will require absolute trust. It will also bring no small amount of risk. While I promise to do my best to shield all who decide to come with me, we will be directly under the enemy. It is quite possible we'll face significant resistance, and you must understand that my main priority will be the leyline."

Oliver straightened. "My people will be more than glad to lay down their lives for the cause."

Leonard resisted the urge to sigh. His instincts, long buried, insisted that taking a group of teenagers into what could be called a suicide mission by lesser people wasn't the best idea. Still, he did need people he could trust, and he couldn't take the most elite Corps as they would be necessary to contain Hassel's response to his actions—at least until he got back. "I will trust your judgment in this, then. Make the rounds and collect at least a dozen earth mages as well."

Oliver's brow furrowed. "I thought you meant to carve the path yourself? Or are they there in case you need to leave us behind, and we have to return on our own?"

"Precisely," Leonard said, not letting his emotions get in the way. The stakes were too high, and if Oliver felt he could handle the risk, he wouldn't coddle the boy—no, the young man. "Having earth mages will also be useful if we need to stabilize the fissure I'll create, in case the diviners don't have the exact location pinned and I'm forced to adjust. We'll feint a probing attack on the wards to draw attention, but our true objective will be to dig deeply to the leyline itself."

Count Pollus probably expected him to take at least a day or two to probe the wards anyway. It was the thing to do, according to current doctrine. Not that he expected to find weak points, given that Hassel had managed to withstand the Void for months, but it shouldn't raise suspicion to see a small, mobile strike team get close.

Oliver's mouth opened, then closed, his expression troubled. Eventually, he found his courage, "Sir, there's something I wanted to ask. Both you and Lady Belinda always taught me to stay away from leylines. That the wild magic is too unpredictable and that anyone who tries to tap into it—"

"Would be consumed," Leonard finished. "Yes. Which is why we won't be harnessing its power. Our goal is simply to disrupt it—damage its flow enough to weaken the wards. Leylines are ancient and resilient. The damage we do will heal within months, but it will buy us the opening we need."

What he didn't say was that if he did not damage the infinite well of mana that powered Hassel's wards, he'd have to use much more dangerous methods. Leonard wanted to avoid having to kill tens of thousands of people.

Oliver's expression shifted to one of realization. "So we wouldn't directly touch them then. Or rather, you'd damage them, but only so much that Hassel won't be able to draw power from them anymore. And for a city that has had access to them for centuries, it's very unlikely they'll have enough reserves of mana crystals to keep them powered."

Leonard nodded, glad that his squire could follow his thought process. "I need someone at my side who can watch my back while I work. Someone I know won't falter, no matter what we face down there."

The weight of his words settled between them, and for a moment, Oliver didn't move. Then, he dropped to one knee, his hand over his heart. "I'll follow you wherever you lead, Sir Leonard. You've given me purpose, and I'll see this through, no matter the cost."

Leonard reached out, resting a hand on his shoulder. "You've grown so much, Oliver. More than you realize. I do not ask you to do this lightly, but I'm grateful for your faith. Stand—there's much to prepare."

Oliver rose, his eyes burning with resolve. Together, they began to walk back toward the main camp, their path illuminated by the distant light of the waning moon.

“Sir, you said they'll heal in time. But what if you miscalculate? What if the disruption causes an explosion? That would vaporize us all and probably a good chunk of Hetnia.” One of the mages Oliver had drafted asked. The squire bristled at the possibility of anyone questioning Leonard's orders, but he didn't take offense.

"It's a risk," he admitted. "One I've weighed carefully. But the alternative—letting those wards stand and enduring a protracted siege—is far worse. We must take bold action to force Pollus' hand. The only way we have to complete our win conditions is to overthrow the board altogether. This is not something we are unused to." He concluded with the ghost of a smirk.

The first light of dawn crept over the horizon, casting a pale glow through his tent's flaps, and Leonard decided the planning session had gone on long enough.

"It is time." He stood, quickly followed by the members of his strike group. A shadow followed along, not revealing itself to any but his gaze. It would serve to keep communication with the surface open.

His cloak billowed in the morning breeze as two dozen soldiers and mages readied their mounts behind him. Despite the young ages of many, their determination was evident, though he could tell that the risks loomed heavily in their minds.

A middle-aged mage stepped around them, murmuring an incantation. "The illusion is ready," he said, dropping his arms. "It should be enough to get close, though I suspect they'll be able to pierce it with the ancient artifacts at their disposal."

Leonard nodded and mounted his black steed, patting its side. "Keep it active until we reach the leyline's marker," he instructed. Then, turning to his assembled group, he decided there was no need for a long speech. "Stay close to me and follow the plan. We will succeed."

The riders kicked their horses into motion, galloping out of the camp. To an outside observer, the space they occupied appeared as empty as the surrounding fields, such was the skill of their illusionist. If there was one thing Leonard was proud of, it was how quickly his nascent state had been to develop a magical tradition.

They reached the midpoint between their camp and the city before the first sign of trouble arose. Leonard caught a flicker of magic in the distance. A subtle but unmistakable long-range scouting spell.

"They have eyes on us," he muttered. It was difficult to say if they had already been spotted or if the guards had simply noticed the effects of their passage, but it wouldn’t be long before the alarm was raised.

As if on cue, the Hassel’s bells rang, shattering the still morning. Figures began appearing on the walls, armored and armed, but their movements were calm, unhurried.

"They don't look concerned," a scout from Oliver's group remarked. He seemed surprised. Leonard wasn't. He knew very well what those wards could handle.

Oliver smirked. "That arrogance will be their undoing."

The group pressed on, their illusion still intact, though the soldiers on the walls now scanned the plains intently. As they neared the marker the Divination Division had identified, Leonard raised a fist, signaling the group to slow.

The location identified by the Divination Division was barely half a mile from the walls and appeared nondescript—just more of the region's natural grassland.

"This is the spot," he said, dismounting and patting his steed. The horse was smart enough to retreat on its own and would come back once he emerged. Such was the value of a well-bred pureblood. He gestured for the others to fan out, and the mages clustered together, preparing to cast while the soldiers formed a protective perimeter.

Soon enough, the first shots rang out, and bullets whizzed toward them from the city walls. A mage in Leonard's group raised her hands, and a translucent shield sprung into existence, deflecting the projectiles harmlessly.

"They're not taking us seriously," she muttered. Indeed, the cannons were still silent.

"Let them," Leonard said. "It's time to begin."

At his signal, the revolutionaries launched their feigned attack. Spells and gunfire erupted toward the wards, splashing harmlessly against the iridescent dome. The defenders on the walls barely flinched, confident in their protection.

Leonard knelt, pressing his hands to the ground. His focus narrowed as he began to prepare [Earthly Fissure], a favorite spell of his, so powerful that it had once brought down the entirety of Lamprey Port's walls. Mana surged around him, and the earth trembled in response to his command.

The soldiers and mages around him kept up the charade, intensifying their attacks as the city's defenders began to urgently sound the alarm, having finally understood that something was wrong. Spellfire and bullets rained down from the walls, though none struck the shielded group.

Leonard's mana rose, allowing his senses to spread deeply as he searched for the leyline. The ground beneath him pulsed, cracks spreading outward in jagged lines. His eyes glowed with a golden light as the spell reached its crescendo.

"Break!" he bellowed, slamming his hands into the earth.

The world seemed to pause for a heartbeat before an ear-shattering roar erupted. The ground split violently, a massive fissure tearing through the grassland and extending toward the city. Trees toppled, their roots exposed by the churning earth, and the wards flickered briefly as the shockwave hit them.

Inside the city, soldiers cried out in alarm, their previous confidence replaced with panic. The wards held, but the spell's force left the ground trembling, destabilizing fortifications and sending shockwaves through the streets.

As the dust settled, Leonard rose, unruffled despite the immense energy he had just expended. Before him, a great rift yawned, a dark, gaping maw leading deep into the earth. He stepped to the edge and peered into the abyss. Though it was faint, he could feel the leyline in the distance.

"Right where they said," Leonard murmured in satisfaction.

Behind him, the revolutionaries began to regroup, shaken despite their knowledge of what was to come.

"The path is open. Prepare to descend." He said.

The mages exchanged nervous glances, but none questioned him. They hurried to follow, reinforcing and smoothing out the path.

Leonard cast one last glance toward the city. Hassel's wards still stood, but the chaos within was unmistakable. The defenders had underestimated them, and that arrogance would be their undoing.

Now, he just needed to wound the World.

Chapter 139 - Nothing is Forbidden - Oliver 12

The descent into the fissure was silent, except for the faint scuff of boots against the smooth stone and the occasional grunt of exertion as the mages were forced to stabilize the path. The group moved deeper into the earth, illuminated by faintly glowing runestones carried by the mages. Oliver stayed close to Leonard, his hand resting instinctively on the hilt of his sword.

“I don’t sense any surprises. Our path should be clear, but don’t lower your guard.” Leonard murmured, echoing faintly in the cavernous space.

Oliver nodded, adjusting his pace to match his mentor’s. Behind them, the rest of the team followed. Any levity was long gone, as they all understood the very real risk of the leyline blowing up upon being damaged. Oliver knew not everyone understood why they were here, but he was glad his group hadn’t hesitated to follow along.

The air grew heavier as they descended, as the oppressive weight of the World’s mana pressed on their bodies. It was quite unlike anything else he had ever experienced.

Whenever the System manifested its might, it was universally considered a glorious moment. The World rarely influenced people’s lives actively, but when it did, it was all everyone could do to stand still and weather it. Deliberately seeking out a leyline to damage it was so far out of the realm of possibility that he could only default back to trusting Leonard knew what he was doing.

Every so often, a mage would smooth a particularly treacherous section of the path with a whispered spell, allowing the group to continue their rapid advance. Despite the precautions, Oliver’s heart raced. The ground felt alive beneath his boots, pulsing faintly with energy.

Its density was such that it distorted the light and allowed him to see their tagalong. He had known one would follow, of course, but hadn’t been able to pinpoint its location so far.

“So,” Oliver whispered, glancing at the shadow elemental’s faint figure gliding alongside them. “What’s the situation outside?”

The others looked at him weirdly for a moment before shifting in surprise as they saw it emerge.

The shadow paused, its amorphous form shifting as if considering the question. Its voice was a low, rasping whisper, like wind through dry leaves. “The city stirs. Soldiers swarm the airfields. The sky buzzes with preparation. Some may suspect the Lightbringer’s actions… but they do not have a clear picture. It is fear of the unknown that drives them.”

Oliver gave a faint smile, and his eyes glinted with satisfaction. He hadn’t doubted his mentor’s plan, but knowing it was working as intended was good.

Next to him, Lucy gulped. Considering how nervous she been that morning, she was doing very well, but this mission was straining her despite her best efforts.

Oliver allowed his fingers to brush hers, and she smiled, relaxing her shoulders a bit.

They hadn’t spoken of what they were, as war was not the time to work out their feelings, but the companionship was nice.

The path steepened, and the oppressive atmosphere intensified. Faint, flickering colors began to emerge from the depths, painting the walls in hues Oliver could scarcely describe: greens that shimmered like molten emeralds, purples with the texture of crushed velvet, and reds so deep they seemed to devour the light. The colors danced and twisted, defying logic, and Oliver found himself averting his eyes, a dull ache forming behind his temples.

“Don’t look too long,” Leonard warned, though he seemed unaffected. “The World’s essence can unravel the mind if you’re not careful. It is not for mortals to gaze upon.”

That only raises more questions, but I guess they will have to be postponed this time, too.

Finally, the group reached the end of the fissure. The cavern opened into a vast chamber, its ceiling lost to the darkness above. The light here was blinding in its vibrancy, an endless cascade of colors spilling forth from the leyline below.

Oliver froze, his breath catching in his throat. Just twenty feet away, a torrent of raw power flowed, an infinite river of light and energy carving through the earth. The air hummed with intensity, a soundless vibration that Oliver felt in his bones.

This was not a place humans were meant to see.

The mana pressure here was overwhelming, acting as a crushing force that made every step feel like wading through a current. Around him, the others faltered, their faces pale and strained. Even the mages, accustomed to manipulating mana though they were, seemed on the verge of collapse.

Given his high affinity to the Light, Oliver considered himself the sturdiest of the lot, yet even he was starting to strain. His mind rebelled at the thought of stepping back, but he might not have a choice.

Then, Leonard extended his aura.

The oppressive weight lifted as a soothing warmth enveloped the group. Leonard’s presence was everywhere, filling the cracks Oliver hadn’t even noticed forming in his mind. It pushed back the overwhelming wrongness, creating a haven in the chaos.

Oliver gasped, feeling immediate and profound relief. He straightened and hurried to stand beside his mentor, light and quick-footed now that his mind was no longer at risk of breaking.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

Leonard didn’t respond immediately, his gaze fixed on the leyline below. His expression was calm, but his eyes burned with purpose. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” he said softly. “And yet, it can be used for horrible acts. I could just pluck it for myself, and Hassel would stop existing. This much power, unchecked… it’s no wonder the ancients feared leylines as much as they revered them.”

Oliver nodded, though he struggled to find words to describe what he was seeing. The leyline seemed alive, a writhing mass of energy that defied comprehension. Colors shifted and merged, creating new hues that Oliver was confident shouldn’t exist. The torrent roared silently, its power palpable even from their vantage point.

“Can it even be damaged?” Oliver asked, his voice hushed. “It feels too grand to be affected by us.” Even though he wasn’t at risk of breaking down now, he could still tell that he was infinitesimally small compared to the World’s veins.

“Grand, yes. Indestructible, no. Leylines are resilient, but they are not immune to disruption. A precise enough strike can destabilize their flow, temporarily severing their connection to the gestalt. That’s all we need.” Leonard said without shifting his gaze.

Oliver tore his eyes from the leyline, feeling his doubt fade as he looked at his mentor. If anyone could accomplish such a feat, it was the man beside him.

“I’ll watch your back,” Oliver said once he was sure his voice wouldn’t waver despite his feeling of awe.

I’m probably about to see the most significant work of magic a human can aspire to.

After all, that was what magic was. The imposition of one’s will upon the World. What could be greater than inflicting a wound on it?

Leonard placed a hand on Oliver’s shoulder, reassuring. “I know you will. Now, be prepared to deal with anything that might come while I work.”

The chamber fell silent as he stepped forward, his form framed by the kaleidoscopic brilliance of the leyline below. The air seemed to hold its breath, the oppressive hum of mana vibrating just beneath the threshold of sound. Oliver watched as he inhaled deeply, his shoulders rising and falling. When he opened his eyes, they burned with molten gold, radiant and terrifying.

“Listen carefully,” Leonard said, making everyone straighten instinctively. Oliver could feel a pressure just under his sternum. His fingers tingled, and he had to fight the instinct to kneel. “What you see here today—what I do here—you must take to your graves. Speak of it to no one.”

Oliver was the first to answer. Without hesitation, he agreed. “I swear, Grand Marshal. Whatever happens here will die with me.”

The others followed, echoing the same oath. Leonard studied them as if measuring the sincerity of their words. After a tense moment, he nodded.

Oliver couldn’t take his eyes off his mentor, but he knew he would find the same reverence he felt should he have looked at the others.

“Good,” he said. “Now, stand back. I will do my best not to let anything reach you, but should you be caught in the clash, you will cease to exist.”

The group retreated, forming a wide semicircle behind him. Leonard drew his sword. The sacred blade caught the fractured light of the leyline and transformed it into blinding radiance. The weapon seemed alive in his hand, thrumming with latent power.

It knew and approved. Whatever was happening here was right and holy.

Oliver’s breath caught as Leonard raised the sword, its tip pointing toward the leyline. At first, nothing seemed to happen. But then the air shifted, an almost imperceptible shiver running through the chamber.

The World groaned.

Cracks spread through the fabric of reality, jagged lines that snaked through the air like living things. The leyline surged in response, flaring violently as if rebelling against the intrusion. Oliver’s stomach churned, and a primal instinct screamed at him that something was deeply, fundamentally wrong.

How could he stand there and watch as the World trashed and screamed? Was he not its child?

Before he could act on those feelings, golden warmth washed over him, chasing away the wrongness like sunlight banishing shadows.

Oliver blinked, restoring his vision just in time to see the impossible: a titanic blade of golden energy materializing through the leyline. Its presence dwarfed anything he had ever imagined. It shimmered with divine light, and where it fell, the World parted.

The leyline quaked under the assault, the rushing torrent splitting in two as the golden blade drove deep into the earth. The power that had once flowed freely now churned and twisted, forced downward into the cracks, its brilliance dimming to a muted glow.

The pressure in the room shifted again, less oppressive but still heavy. Oliver couldn’t tear his eyes away from the golden construct that now stood embedded in the leyline. Something told him that what he was seeing was only a minor part of what was happening, yet it was more than enough.

Even without profound knowledge of this matter, Oliver could tell that the leyline had been significantly weakened. Its once-overwhelming energy now felt distant and restrained, and he knew instinctively that it would take a long time for it to recover fully.

The golden blade, however, remained. Its presence ensured that the leyline could not be healed unless someone managed to remove it. That was not a feat any mortal would be capable of.

Leonard exhaled, lowering Dyeus as the molten glow faded from his eyes. His posture relaxed slightly, though his expression remained grim.

“It is done,” he said. Oliver heard some strain in his voice for the first time, but the man recovered remarkably quickly, “The wards above will weaken as their power supply dwindles. The city’s protections won’t hold for long.”

A murmur of awe rippled through the group, but Leonard silenced it quickly. “Don’t celebrate yet,” he said. “This was only the first step. We still have to get out of here—and quickly. Prepare to climb.”

Oliver stepped forward, his gaze lingering on the golden blade embedded in the leyline. “Will it stay like that?” he asked. Something about the blade called to him. It felt familiar.

I am but a child playing in the mud before the greatest of masters.

“For a time,” Leonard replied. “The construct is self-sustaining. It will fade once we have taken the city.”

Unspoken went that should they not win, it would remain there and forever condemn Hassel.

As they turned to leave, Oliver cast one last glance back. The blade gleamed silently in the darkness, a beacon of power and defiance.

With a deep breath, he turned and followed Leonard.

The battle of Hassel had only just begun.

Chapter 140 - Who dares - Amelia 11

The air in the command position crackled with tension as Amelia stood before the assembled officers. Her purple eyes glowed as she tracked every movement across the constantly updated maps. Moments earlier, a pulse of golden light washed over the camp, causing gasps of awe and murmurs to ripple through the ranks as they recognized the Grand Marshal’s power. Now, Hassel’s wards flickered like a guttering flame, emboldening the revolutionaries.

Amelia allowed herself a single, fleeting smile. She did not doubt that Leonard would succeed, but it was good that he was following the schedule.

It’d be awkward if the surprise got here too early.

“Send word to the Mage Corps,” she ordered, causing a hush to fall. “Prepare the layered shields. They’ll respond with artillery first while they try to stabilize the wards.”

No one asked why they were not attacking while the protections were so weak, which went to show that granting a basic magical education even to those who’d never delve into the mysteries was smart. Failing wards unleashed their remaining power in a destructive wave, and Hassel’s still had enough to turn the surrounding region to ash. They needed to weaken them first.

The officers scrambled to relay her orders, runners sprinted from the tent while diviners relayed her commands to the far edges of the camp.

Amelia spread her senses over the battlefield to ensure nothing was amiss. The Revolutionary Army bristled with anticipation. Soldiers adjusted their gear, preparing for the final battle of Hetnia’s campaign. Gunners checked their machines with great devotion. The orcs waited until they could wet their blade with ill-concealed anticipation. Within minutes, the Mage Corps formed ranks at the front. Their focus was palpable as they began weaving their protections, crafting barriers of translucent light with great speed.

Then it began.

The first volley came without warning, and the deafening roar of cannons split the morning air. The ground shook as dozens—then hundreds—of shells screamed toward them, momentarily blotting out the sun.

“Shields up!” Amelia barked, amplifying her voice.

The Mage Corps responded in unison. Spells flared to life, and layered domes of protective light enveloped the army. The first impacts hit like thunderclaps, fiery explosions blossoming against the shields. Thousands of spells and cannon fire slammed into the barriers in a relentless cascade, causing the ground beneath the soldiers’ feet to quake.

Leonard once said that being under shields during a bombardment was like beholding the aurora. Looking up now, Amelia saw the same sight: waves of light, refracting and shimmering as they absorbed the devastating assault. The shields held.

Amelia didn’t move, even as another salvo struck, and the impacts echoed like hammer blows. She kept her focus on the enemy’s movements, racing through the necessary calculations for her part. The wards were weakening further, their glow dimming with every volley. The defenders knew it, too; the intensity of their fire suggested desperation.

They still will last for a week under what our gunners can unleash, but Pollus knows our means are not so limited. If we could attack freely, they’d be depleted within a day.

A junior officer approached, saluting smartly. “Mage Corps reports all shields stable, ma’am. No breaches.”

“Good,” Amelia said, her tone brisk. “Now it’s our turn.”

She turned to the artillery commander, a grizzled man named Vardek. His face was already split in a fierce grin, anticipation lighting his eyes.

“Commander, let’s remind Hassel of who we are. Begin the counter-barrage.”

“With pleasure, General.” Vardek barked orders to his crews, who eagerly followed.

The Revolutionary Army’s artillery roared to life. Cannons, mage-ballistae, and arcane siege engines fired in unison, their payloads streaking toward the city’s walls like comets. Spells followed closely behind in intricate, collaborative weaves designed to punch through wards and devastate fortifications. The air itself seemed to ignite as the barrage lit up the battlefield.

Amelia watched as the first impacts struck Hassel’s flickering wards. The city’s defenses groaned under the assault, and the once-pristine barriers were riddled with cracks that shimmered ominously. They were quickly patched, but their mere appearance meant things were dire indeed for the defenders.

From her vantage point, she could see them scrambling atop the walls. They returned fire as best they could, but their efforts were disjointed and chaotic. The Revolutionaries’ coordinated strikes were taking their toll.

“Report from the Mage Corps,” another runner called out breathlessly. “The shields are holding steady. Minor strain, nothing critical.”

“Excellent.” Amelia turned her attention back to the walls. “Maintain pressure. I want those wards on emergency power before midday.”

The army’s artillery intensified, with each salvo hitting harder and faster than the last. The ground shook with its sheer force, and even from this distance, Amelia could see chunks of stone falling from Hassel’s outer fortifications from where Leonard’s spell had weakened them.

She allowed herself a rare moment of satisfaction. The defenders were faltering, their advantage slipping away with every passing second. His gamble had provided them the opening they needed.

Still, there was no room for complacency.

“Signal the reserve mages to be ready for suppression spells,” she ordered, her gaze fixed on the city. “If the airfields mobilize their forces, I want them forced to expend their mana crystals before they can reach us.”

Amelia felt a faint vibration beneath her feet as the runner sprinted away. She frowned and glanced toward the walls.

As he expected, Pollus must have sent someone to restore the leyline. That means I need to earn some more time.

Her gaze lingered on the walls for a moment longer before she turned to the officers beside her.

“Keep the pressure constant,” she said. “Even if our reserves cross the halfway point, I want them forced to keep up with our rate.”

The officers nodded determinedly and scattered to carry out her orders. She could have used shadows for this, but she was reserving her power for later.

An hour later, the air was tense as Amelia paced the command tent. The distant thunder of the artillery barrage still rumbled, but its rhythm had changed—slower, measured. The walls of Hassel would hold a little longer. She expected the initial phase to last for a while, but the city was holding out more than she’d like. They seemed to have a surprising reserve of mages. Still, when an urgent ripple brushed against her senses, Amelia smiled.

“Speak,” she commanded even before the shadowy figure had fully materialized in the corner of the room.

The humanoid form of darkness bowed low. Its voice was a whisper, smooth and cold as silk. “The airships, my lady. Three of them have been mobilized. They will take to the skies within minutes, accompanied by Griffin Knights. They bring artillery sufficient to reduce this camp to ash.”

Amelia relaxed and let out a slow breath, turning to Neer, her second-in-command.

“Prepare the Mage Corps for focused counter-battery, but don’t let them overextend. Time is all we need.”

Despite being a veteran and having walked into dozens of battles that killed many lesser warriors, Neer hesitated. “You don’t intend to face them alone, do you?”

Amelia’s lips curved into a wry smile. “Of course I do. Who else can buy us the time we need?”

Neer started to protest, but she raised a hand to silence her. “Your job is to keep the ground forces steady. Mine is to ensure those airships don’t level us before Leonard returns.”

Without waiting for a reply, she strode from the tent, her shadow trailing behind her like a loyal hound.

Soldiers paused in their preparations to watch her pass. She felt their gazes, the awe mere mortals held when faced with a being that could battle with what looked like gods to them, but she didn’t slow her stride.

Only when she got to the edge of the camp, did she stop. She rose to her full height with a deep breath and summoned her connection to the Elemental King. The response was immediate, as she knew to expect—a wave of cold power surged through her veins, coiling around her like an old friend. Shadows rose at her feet, swirling and thickening into a cloak that enveloped her completely.

It settled into armor-like tendrils that hugged her frame and a long, flowing mantle that rippled like liquid night. A mask of darkness obscured her features, leaving only her eyes visible, glowing faintly with an eerie purple light.

She stepped into the air, rising without effort as a power beyond the ken of men buoyed her.

The first airship breached the horizon like a rising sun—if the sun were a hulking mass of enchanted metal and wood. The King Vasily-Class vessels were marvels of engineering and magical prowess, their sheer size dwarfing even the largest siege engines. Wards shimmered around them in an impenetrable shell of arcane power. Two more followed, looming over the battlefield.

Behind them came the Griffin Knights, their silver-armored riders glinting like falling stars.

Amelia stopped, suspended midair, her cloak billowing around her as though it had a life of its own. She could feel the weight of their attention shifting to her, a single figure standing alone against Hetnia’s might.

The lead airship fired first, its cannon blazing with fire-torching artillery. The shot streaked toward her as a molten mass of power that promised annihilation.

Amelia raised her hand. The shadows surged forward, forming a barrier that consumed the attack entirely, leaving nothing but a faint ripple.

Then she moved.

She darted forward, a streak of shadow against the bright sky, closing the distance faster than the airships’ gunners could adjust. With a gesture, she sent a lance of darkness streaking toward the lead vessel. The ward flared, absorbing the impact with a brilliant flash of light.

As expected. Amelia didn’t need to destroy them, only to keep them occupied.

The Griffins swooped toward her, their riders launching spells and arrows in perfect coordination. Amelia twisted in the air, weaving through the barrage with ethereal agility. With a flick of her wrist, tendrils of shadow lashed out, striking several Knights from their mounts.

And yet, more took their places.

The second airship fired, its cannons releasing a salvo that turned the sky into a storm of fire and shrapnel. Amelia threw up her arms, and the shadows around her expanded into a massive dome shielding her from the worst of it.

Her vision blurred momentarily, feeling her skull rattle as she absorbed it all, lest it vaporize a good chunk of the army’s defenses. Sweat beaded on her forehead beneath the mask, but she held firm.

The third airship had drawn closer now, its guns swiveling to track her. She could see the crew moving inside, grimly preparing another volley.

She dove toward it, moving faster than they could react. Her cloak extended, forming long, blade-like appendages. This time, she struck the ward directly, her shadow-blades raking against the magical barrier. Sparks flew, and the ward groaned but held.

The Griffin Knights regrouped, circling her like a school of predators. She had no time to deal with them—her focus had to remain on the airships.

Amelia reached deep within herself, calling upon the full extent of her pact with the Elemental King. Her voice rang out, cold and commanding, as she spoke the ancient words of power. “Progeny of the First Son, answer my call!"

The sky darkened. Shadows stretched unnaturally, rising from the ground to form a swirling vortex around her. The Griffins veered away, their riders shouting in alarm.

When the vortex burst, waves of darkness rippled outward, slamming into the airships and obscuring their sight for the briefest moments before the wards repelled her attack. It wasn’t enough to destroy them, but it was enough to force them to retreat, and their crews scrambled to recover.

When they did, they found that a hundred flying shades now besieged their escort of Griffin Knights, leaving the airships to face her alone.

Amelia hovered in the silence that followed, her chest heaving as she caught her breath. She could feel the strain of such a summons in her limbs, but she didn’t falter.

This was a game of endurance. She didn’t need to win. She only needed to hold.

Far below, she could see the Revolutionary Army organizing, preparing for the rain of fire that was to come.

Amelia didn’t allow herself any more rest. She had a hunt to complete.

Chapter 141 - Battle through the Heavens - Amelia 12

Amelia floated in the sky like a wraith, her shadow-clad form indistinct against the swirling clouds of smoke and fire that now stained the air. Her gaze never wavered from the three King Vasily-class airships, whose immense bulk dominated the horizon. Their wards shimmered like translucent domes of pale light, taunting her.

A dozen rounds were exchanged, and nothing managed to break those protections. She thought she had long since stopped comparing herself to Leonard, but it seemed she still held a vestige of pride if she was so annoyed at failing where he succeeded.

That they had used the time to shred her servants only added insult to injury.

Amelia stretched out her arms, the blackened armor encasing her shifting like liquid obsidian. In response, the air around her rippled, and new shadows began to coalesce from the pools that formed. Portals of writhing blackness opened one by one, spreading outward like a spider’s web until the sky teemed with shadowy forms.

An army of flying shapes emerged—humanoid constructs with sharp-edged wings and blade-like claws. Silent and cold, the [Nightmares] surged forward, diving toward the victorious Griffin Knights.

The first clash was chaotic.

The shadow’s blades sliced through silver armor while the Knights retaliated with arming spells and coordinated attacks. The Griffins shrieked as they twisted through the air to avoid deathly blows, their riders shouting commands and loosing enchanted bolts that dissolved the constructs one by one. Yet for every shadow that fell, another rose from the portals.

Amelia felt the battle unfold with a detached calm. She had no intention of joining the melee. Her focus was on the airships, who had so far managed to match her.

Soon, the balance would shift, but she’d like to have left her mark before then.

She focused her will, deciding to punish the arrogance she could feel in the mere mortals who thought they could fight her and win. The air thickened, and the sunlight dimmed to a faint, gray haze. From her outstretched palm, a beam of pure darkness lanced forth.

It slammed into the lead airship’s ward with a force that shook the heavens. The impact rippled outward in concentric waves, and the ward flickered visibly, drawing panicked shouts from the crew inside.

Even this is not enough. I have to wonder just how Haylich has developed such powerful mobile wards when the best they can do for their towns would have long since shattered. But I already know the answer. The airships have the interest of the high nobles, while Hetnia’s towns do not.

Her eyes narrowed, and the glow of purple intensified as she poured more of herself into the attack. The beam surged, the dark energy coiling tighter, its edges crackling with amethyst lightning. She could feel the ward weakening further, and the strain on the airship’s magical systems was visible even from this distance.

And then, before she could stress it to failure, the two other airships retaliated.

A sudden barrage erupted from their cannons, filling the air with streaks of fire and disintegrating bolts. Amelia’s instincts screamed, and she broke off her spell, vanishing into the shadows just as the projectiles reached her position.

Behind her, a wide stretch of farmland exploded in a series of deafening booms, consumed by fire within moments. The heat from the impact washed over her even at a distance, and she gritted her teeth as she reappeared farther away, her cloak of shadows swirling protectively.

Amelia darted through the air as a streak of black against the chaotic sky, dodging as more artillery fire streaked toward her. Every time she moved, her shadowy form flickered, making her appear almost intangible.

The battle became a blur of motion and destruction.

She sent another spear of condensed shadow lancing toward the closest airship, aimed at the engines. Its ward flared, catching the spell just in time, but the impact rocked the vessel.

Meanwhile, her shadow constructs swarmed the Griffins, forcing the Knights to tighten their formation. Yet the mounts were skilled, working in tandem with their riders to pick off the constructs swiftly and ruthlessly.

A sudden burst of light drew Amelia’s attention. One of the airships had launched a massive, glowing projectile—a bomb imbued with enough mana to level a city block. She shifted her focus, summoning a wall of shadows to intercept it, calculating in an instant that should she avoid it, it would fall upon the army and crack through the shields. The bomb struck her barrier, and the resulting explosion tore through the fabric of the spell and sent shockwaves that rattled her to the core.

She grunted in annoyance, feeling her reserves beginning to wane. The battle was taking its toll.

Amelia refused to falter. Again, she asked for her contract to be fulfilled, and again, it came through. Dark mana filled her veins, and she dove toward the closest airship, weaving through a storm of cannon fire and spell bursts. Her cloak of shadows writhed, extending into sharp tendrils that lashed against the ward. It flickered again, weaker this time. A single breach was all she needed, but to maintain her onslaught, she’d need to be able to focus on one for at least a minute. That was time the other vessels knew better than to give her.

The airships, too, were showing signs of strain. Their flight patterns had grown more erratic as the crews were forced to respond to her tactics and their firepower less coordinated. Even the Griffins faltered, their ranks thinning under the constant pressure from the ever-increasing shadow constructs.

The battle wore on in an endless cycle of attacks and counterattacks. Amelia’s breaths came in sharp gasps, the strain of maintaining her connection to the Elemental King pressing heavily on her. But she couldn’t lessen the pressure now that she was finally going somewhere.

The airships, mighty as they were, were not invincible. Their wards were failing, their firepower diminishing. The Griffins were nearly routed, and their Knights were forced into defensive maneuvers as her constructs took more and more with them as they fell.

Just a little more. I need just a little more.

Unfortunately, just as the shadows did not hesitate to aid her when she requested it, they also didn’t care about her pleas. With a shudder, Amelia felt her connection to the elemental plane diminish rapidly, and once again, she was limited to her personal ability.

Hovering in the sky, her shadows flickering around her like embers in a dying fire, Amelia painted the picture of a sorceress queen of old being finally brought low. The army of shadow constructs that had surged through the air was rapidly lessening without the unending mana, their forms unraveling under the relentless assault of the Griffin Knights. Despite heavy losses, the Knights had regrouped with renewed ferocity, darting through the chaos with little regard for their safety now that they sniffed weakness.

Amelia directed a tendril of darkness to intercept a charging Knight. The Griffin screeched as it wrapped around its wings, forcing it into a wild spiral, but its rider fired off a quick spell, severing the tendril and steadying the mount. The two soared away, alive, yet their movement forced the rest to expend more mana.

Below, the Revolutionary Army scrambled to adjust its defenses. The airships had shifted their focus, unleashing devastating cannon fire and magical artillery salvos upon them in a petty display. The captains understood they couldn’t extract a full victory from her and decided to aim for at least a pyrrhic one. The sky lit up with explosions, and the ground trembled as the shots rained down. Each blast shattered precious layers of protection, scattering soldiers and war machines alike.

Amelia stretched her arms wide, pulling on her reserves to weave a massive barrier of shadow. The dark shield groaned as it caught the brunt of an incoming barrage, rippling under the impact but holding firm. Sweat beaded her brow as she maintained the defense, and her arms trembled.

If the airships weren’t stopped soon, the Revolutionary Army would be decimated.

The battle wore on, each passing moment sapping Amelia’s strength. She sent her remaining shadows to buy time, personally guiding them to intercept Griffin Knights and disrupt the airships’ bombardments. And yet, with her so busy to defend the army, the Knights were free to chase and kill her constructs once more.

One by one, her shadows fell.

The last construct crumbled under the strike of a gleaming lance, its dark form dissipating into the ether. Amelia found herself alone, standing against the combined might of Hassel’s air force.

A new volley of cannon fire from the lead airship threatened to rip through the Revolutionary lines below, forcing Amelia to act. She expelled her remaining strength, deflecting the barrage just enough to save the bulk of the army. The effort staggered her, her vision swimming as exhaustion clawed at her mind.

A second barrage began to form, the airships repositioning to maximize their firepower. The Griffins circled her like vultures, ready to pounce. Amelia’s fingers twitched as she prepared to summon whatever power she had left for one final stand. Asking for more mana through her contract likely meant a price she wasn’t ready to pay yet, but letting the enemy annihilate the army when they were so close to victory was out of the question.

And then, from the south, salvation arrived.

The first explosion was deafening, a crack of magical fire that shattered the air. Amelia’s head snapped toward the source, and her heart soared at the sight.

A barrage of magical artillery streaked through the sky and slammed into the Griffin Knights, scattering them like leaves in a storm. Several mounts plummeted to the ground, their riders rendered into red mist. The airships, caught off guard, were forced to climb higher, breaking apart their formation to avoid colliding.

Through the chaos, a single vessel emerged from the horizon.

Painted in the bold gold and crimson of the Revolution, the airship was slightly larger than Hassel’s King Vasily-Class ships. Its hull gleamed in the sunlight, bristling with cannons and enchanted weaponry. The prow was adorned with the Revolutionary Army’s golden sword crest.

The vessel unleashed another volley, aimed entirely at the nearest airship. The shots struck true, hammering the weakened wards with explosive force. Hassel’s ship wavered, its crew scrambling to stabilize it as the Revolutionary airship pressed its advantage.

Amelia exhaled a shaky breath, relief flooding through her as she felt the tide of battle shift. The Revolution’s efforts to salvage Treon’s airship required more time and resources than many would have liked, but the results couldn’t be argued with.

The Griffin Knights, evidently outmatched, began to retreat, their ranks thinning as they fled the battlefield. The Hasselian airships, finding themselves outmaneuvered, shifted their focus to defending themselves rather than bombarding the army below.

Amelia’s lips curled into a faint smile. “About time,” she murmured.

The Revolutionary airship soared into the fray, its cannons roaring as it targeted the enemy vessels. Each shot was precise and coordinated to exploit the weaknesses in the enemy wards she had worked hard to create. The sky filled with fire and smoke, but the loyalist forces were on the back foot for the first time in hours.

Amelia drew herself up, her strength slowly returning as she absorbed the ambient shadows around her. She wasn’t done yet. With a flick of her wrist, she summoned a pair of spears and sent them hurtling toward one of the retreating Griffins. She struck true, clipping the mount’s wing and sending it spiraling out of control.

Turning her attention to the remaining airships, she narrowed her eyes. While the Revolutionary vessel had turned the tide, the battle wasn’t over. Hassel’s forces were still formidable, and the Revolutionary Army needed to press the advantage before they could regroup.

The remains of her summons coalesced around her until the very light seemed to retreat. From the dark, a massive spear of darkness began to take shape, rotating rapidly.

With a final push of will, she hurled the spear toward the nearest airship. It struck the vessel’s ward with a resounding crack, the barrier finally fracturing under the impact. The Revolutionary airship seized the opportunity, unleashing a devastating broadside barrage that tore through the weakened ward and struck the hull.

The King-Vasily shuddered, and its crew screamed as it quickly lost altitude.

The battle wasn’t over, but she could taste victory.

Chapter 142 - Don't Stop for Anything - Leonard 46

The tremors started before they could leave the chamber.

It didn’t take a genius to realize that this was Hassel’s response, so Leonard ordered the team to hurry, “They are coming to intercept us, but it will take some time to penetrate this deep. We must get as close to the surface as possible.”

No one objected, and so they quickly left the broken leyline behind, with the earth mages hurrying to smooth out the new fractures Leonard’s actions had created. Stone shifted under their direction, forming a crude but navigable path. Oliver lingered close to Leonard, matching his pace so they could speak.

“Sir,” he began hesitantly, “if they are already close enough to be felt from here, they’ll likely intercept us before we can get out. Should you not leave us behind?”

“I will if it comes to it, but we have some time still,” he answered.

As if on cue, the earth shuddered again. Dust and loose stones rained down from the ceiling, and the walls groaned under unseen pressure. The mages were quick to reinforce the cavern’s structure, but the tension in the air was palpable.

“What should we expect?” Oliver asked.

Leonard didn’t answer immediately. His gaze turned upward, where the tremors seemed strongest, and he looked through the layers. “Beast tamers with moleworms. Mages, use only stone; they can go through anything else.”

The earth steadied, but only briefly. A minute later, another violent shake tore through the corridor, accompanied by a deep, resonant rumble. The team kept running, instincts honed by the long campaign kicking in. A faint scratching sound followed, growing louder until it echoed through the passage.

The ceiling cracked.

“Brace yourselves!” Leonard shouted, raising a hand. A golden barrier shimmered into place just as the earth above them caved in, and chunks of rock and soil slammed against the shield. The mages worked alongside him, stabilizing the collapsing tunnel with several stone arches.

The dust settled, revealing a gaping hole in the ceiling. From the darkness above, something stirred.

A large shape descended, revealing a segmented body glistening with slime and chitin. Then another, and another, until a dozen grotesque moleworms filled the space, twitching their eyeless heads as if sniffing the air. Mounted on their backs were men clad in dark, practical armor, bearing a grim determination.

Leonard stepped forward, hand on his sword, prepared to strike them down. He eyed the newcomers and decided to attempt diplomacy before he engaged in a battle that could collapse the tunnel on their heads. “Riders,” he called out, rumbling with authority. “You’ve gone to great lengths to trap us here. I’ll give you one chance—turn back now and live.”

The men said nothing. They drew blackened blades in unison, and their moleworms shifted restlessly beneath them.

Leonard sighed, his expression hardening. “So be it.”

The riders struck first, urging their mounts forward with a guttural command. The moleworms surged toward the group with shocking speed for creatures of their size, snapping their massive jaws. Leonard barked orders, and his team sprang into action.

The earth mages raised stone barriers to block the initial charge. One worm slammed headlong into the obstruction, writhing as it tried to burrow through. Another leaped over the barrier entirely, its rider slashing downward at one of the revolutionaries.

Oliver intercepted the attack, pushing his whole weight against the rider’s blade. The force of the impact sent him stumbling back, but he recovered quickly, dodging a second strike. The worm lunged, and he rolled aside, avoiding the creature’s jaws by an inch.

Leonard mowed through the closest beast, emitting a golden flash as he cut it in twain. Not content with that, he sliced through the second worm’s chitin with a thoughtless slash, appearing before it so quickly that its rider dismounted mid-fall. To the man’s credit, he engaged Leonard immediately, not losing heart despite the demise of his mount.

“You’re disciplined,” Leonard remarked, deflecting the blows with ease. “But discipline alone won’t save you.”

He disarmed the rider with a single upward swing and struck him down.

This would be easier if I didn’t have to hold back, but even I might have trouble protecting everyone from a collapse.

The battle intensified, and the confined space magnified every noise. The revolutionaries fought with great valor, clashing against the riders’ relentless assault without losing an inch. The moleworms demonstrated why they were known as formidable foes by burrowing through the ground and avoiding lethal attacks, forcing the earth mages to expend their mana to stabilize the cavern.

One worm breached the line, lunging toward the group’s rear, where the less-experienced fighters held their position. Oliver saw it and reacted instinctively.

“Get down!” he shouted, charging forward. He planted his feet and swung his sword with all his strength above Lucy’s head, biting into the worm’s side. The creature screeched, its momentum faltering, and Oliver pressed the attack.

Leonard caught sight of his stand and allowed himself a brief moment of pride.

The riders were well-coordinated, and their attacks forced the revolutionaries into a defensive position. Leonard would have liked to use the battle to give his men some valuable experience, but he knew the conditions were simply too unfavorable. They needed a broader area to fight, or he’d be forced to risk harming his people.

“We’re cutting through!” he shouted once it became clear they were at risk of being corralled. “Push them aside and follow me!”

The earth mages quickly followed his command, reshaping the cavern’s walls to funnel their enemies into narrower lanes. The moleworms struggled to maneuver in the suddenly confined space and reacted the only way they knew how: digging in the false walls. When these predictably fell upon them, they thrashed, dislodging their riders and breaking formation.

With a surge of Light, Leonard dispatched a fallen enemy and turned his attention to the largest moleworm blocking the exit. The creature reared back, its rider raising his sword in challenge.

Leonard met the charge head-on, flaring his aura. The sacred Dyeus carved through the worm’s armor without pause. The rider fell with it, not even having realized he was dead.

“Move!” Leonard commanded, rallying his team around him as he pushed toward the opening.

When they saw their formation break, the riders hesitated. Some turned to regroup, while others decided to fight to the bitter end. Leonard didn’t give them the chance to recover.

With a final burst of coordinated effort, the revolutionaries broke through the blockade and emerged into the more stable tunnel beyond.

Leonard took the moment of quiet as the gift it was and turned to his tagalong. The shadow elemental beside him flickered and shifted like smoke caught in an unfelt breeze, waiting for acknowledgment.

“Does your mistress have the time for this, or should we be rushing to her aid?”

The shadow swirled upward, forming a vaguely humanoid shape. “Mistress holds her ground. She dances with ships of fire and steel, but distress is not her companion yet.” It whispered.

Leonard inclined his head. “Good.” His gaze swept over the group and lingered on the mounted enemies gathering behind them. He shifted his grip on his sword. “Then we have time to finish this.”

Oliver said before he could take a step forward. “Let me take the lead, sir.”

Leonard arched an eyebrow. “That’s half a dozen Experts atop moleworms with plenty of fight left in them.” It wasn’t a rebuke, but it was very close to it.

Oliver nodded, setting his jaw in the same stubborn look he had sported when begging him to become his apprentice. “I can do this. Please. Let me prove it.”

Leonard studied him for a long moment. He could sense a powerful resolve in his heart, a burning desire to prove his worth. After a brief pause, he sighed. “Very well. But if you’re too slow or falter, I’ll end it myself. We can’t afford to linger here.”

“I understand.” Oliver’s answer was firm.

Stepping forward, he took point. With a steady breath, he cast an enhancing spell over himself and his comrades, and golden light bloomed faintly across their forms.

The effect was immediate. Strength surged through their limbs, their vision sharpened, and the oppressive darkness of the tunnel seemed to retreat. Behind him, the others straightened, emboldened by the light.

Leonard watched from the side, arms crossed over his chest, a faint smile tugging at his lips. Not bad. He’s gotten strong enough that he can mimic my style.

There was a reason he hadn’t cast [Halo of the Righteous] here, but that restriction didn’t apply to Oliver. His enhancement spells didn’t run the risk of collapsing the tunnel.

The largest moleworm lunged first, twisting its massive bulk with startling speed as its rider drove it forward. Oliver didn’t flinch. He quickly led the charging beast away from the group and pivoted, swinging in a wide arc. The strike connected with the worm’s armored hide, and a bright light exploded outward on impact.

The creature reared back, emitting a high-pitched screech that echoed through the cavern. The rider struggled to regain control, but Oliver pressed the attack. He slashed again, targeting the vulnerable joints between the beast’s chitinous plates.

A second moleworm moved to flank him, but Oliver didn’t let himself be trapped. “Now!” he shouted.

The earth mages responded instantly, raising stone barriers to block the second worm’s approach. His little girlfriend cast a binding spell, causing tendrils of wind to wrap around the creature’s numerous legs and slow its movements.

The revolutionaries moved in sync, following Oliver’s directions with a precision that could only be achieved through a Command Ability. The moleworms, previously overwhelming in their size and ferocity, found themselves boxed in. Stone walls rose around them, and the tunnels they had used to burrow were sealed shut by the earth mages’ deft terrain manipulation.

Oliver’s blade flashed again and again as he drove back the lead worm, almost taking the rider’s head several times. The man parried his strike, but the force of the attack sent him sliding back in his saddle.

Leonard nodded approvingly from the sidelines. “Good instincts,” he murmured to himself. He probably would have killed the beast first, but he could see the benefit in keeping it busy protecting its rider.

The battle was intense yet brief. With their mobility restricted and their numbers dwindling, the moleworms and their riders found themselves at a clear disadvantage. Oliver’s light-enhanced strikes cut through chitin and steel alike, drawing more attention to himself and thus allowing the others to run up the score.

Mmh, I suppose I have been a bad example. I should take some time to explain why it’s a bad idea to play bait when you cannot reform your body from atoms…

“Keep the pressure on!” Oliver barked. “Don’t let them regroup!”

One of the riders attempted to flee, urging his worm toward a weakened section of the stone barrier. Oliver saw the movement and acted swiftly. He leaped onto the creature’s back and channeled his mana into a powerful downward strike. The blade sank deep into its back, sending a shockwave of light through its body.

The worm exploded from within, its rider thrown violently to the ground. Oliver jumped away, twisting in the air. As soon as he touched down, he pointed to the fleeing enemy. “Seal it off!”

The earth mages responded instantly, closing the gap with a stone wall. The rider skidded to a halt, trapped.

By the time the dust settled, only two enemies remained alive, and that quickly changed once the stone walls erupted in a hail of bullets. The moleworms, either dead or dying, lay scattered across the cavern floor.

Oliver dismounted the last worm’s corpse, breathing heavily and wiping sweat from his brow. His enhancing spell faded, leaving the tunnel dim once more.

Leonard stepped forward, calmly approving. “Well done. You handled that with all the skill of a great knight.”

Oliver straightened, a faint smile breaking through his fatigue. “Thank you, sir. I had a good teacher.”

Leonard’s apprentice was obviously still tense from the fight because it took him several seconds to realize the meaning of his words.

When he turned to face him, his expression was one of desperate hope and longing. Leonard nodded, smiling warmly.

Chapter 143 - The men Who Should Know Better - Oliver 13

Oliver sheathed his sword with trembling hands, his chest rising and falling rapidly. He searched Leonard's face for proof that he misunderstood his words. Instead, his mentor clapped slowly.

"Well done," Leonard rumbled warmly. There was no hint of deceit in his expression.

Oliver blinked, caught off guard. "Thank you, sir," he managed, unsure how to respond. Unsure of what was about to happen.

Leonard strode toward him, unsheathing his sword, appearing to his eyes as if in slow motion. Dyeus shimmered faintly, reflecting a golden hue Oliver had come to know intimately. His breath hitched as realization dawned.

Before he could fully process what was happening, Leonard stopped before him, holding the sword upright. "Oliver." His voice was imbued with something deeper, heavier. "Kneel."

Oliver's heart thundered in his chest as he dropped to his knees, feeling disconnected from his body. The ground beneath him was hard and cold, but he barely noticed. A rush of emotion surged through him—a mix of disbelief, joy, and profound relief.

I did it. I finally did it, Dad. Mom, I'm a Knight.

In the quiet that followed, he felt an immense weight lifting from his shoulders. He hadn't realized how deeply the memory of his failure in the forest had scarred him, how much he'd carried the burden of that mistake. The pain of having led his friends to their deaths had hidden his disappointment in his lack of a promotion, but it had lingered like a shadow at the edge of his mind.

Leonard raised the sword, holding it aloft as if calling upon some unseen force. "Squire, do you swear to uphold justice? To wield your strength for those who cannot? To walk always in the Light and to honor its teachings?"

Oliver swallowed hard, his throat tight with emotion. "I swear," he said steadily, not betraying the storm raging inside him.

The sword descended, tapping lightly against his right shoulder. A warmth spread through him, almost tangible, as if the Light he swore to serve was acknowledging his oath.

Leonard's voice deepened, reverberating in the cavern like a bell. "Do you swear to lead with courage, to temper strength with wisdom, and to remain steadfast in the face of darkness?"

"I swear," Oliver said firmly.

The blade touched his left shoulder, and the warmth grew, wrapping around him like a cloak.

"Then rise, Sir Oliver the Bold," Leonard declared. "And carry this honor with pride, for it is well earned."

For a moment, Oliver couldn't move. He stared at the ground, his vision blurred by unshed tears. His chest felt tight, but not with pain—it was the overwhelming sense of release, the knowledge that he'd redeemed himself in the eyes of his mentor and his comrades.

Slowly, he rose to his feet and met Leonard's gaze, whose expression was one of pride and whose eyes were soft with approval.

"Thank you, sir," Oliver said, his voice barely more than a whisper.

"You've earned it," Leonard replied. "Now stand proudly and show the world what you're capable of."

A cheer broke out behind them, shattering the solemnity of the moment. Oliver turned to find the rest of the group clapping in joyous celebration.

Lucy rushed to his side, and in a fit of emotion, he swept her up in his arms and kissed her deeply. She reciprocated with enthusiasm, and for a moment, everything faded away, leaving only the two of them.

Unfortunately, reality quickly caught up to them, and the two separated in a hurry to the tune of wolf whistles.

Despite himself, Oliver felt his cheeks flush. He wasn't accustomed to being the center of attention, but their enthusiasm was infectious. He managed a smile, nodding in thanks as they called out his name.

His focus quickly returned to Leonard when he placed a firm hand on his shoulder. "Remember," he murmured, meant just for Oliver. "This isn't just a title. It's a responsibility. Carry it well."

"I will," Oliver promised.

"I know."

The moment passed, and the group returned to their tasks, clearing the remnants of the moleworm attack and ensuring the path would be stable despite the fight. But something had changed. Oliver could feel how his comrades glanced at him now—with a respect that hadn't been there before.

As he stood beside Leonard, the weight of his sword at his hip and the memory of the oath still fresh in his mind, he felt a quiet confidence settle within him.

Sir Oliver the Bold.

The name felt strange yet right, like a cloak he was still learning to wear. He had earned this, and he would prove, time and again, that the faith placed in him was not misplaced.

Predictably, that was when the shadow that had accompanied them wavered, flickering like a candle in a strong wind. It solidified briefly, and its voice came as a strained whisper. "My Mistress… she uses all her strength. You must hurry."

That snapped Oliver into action, "We need to move faster then. Earth mages, cast [Earth Passage]. Conservation of energy is no longer a priority."

The mages agreed and began preparing the intricate spell. The ground beneath them churned and smoothed into a glass-like surface, extending as far as the eyes could see. With a collective push, the group began rushing over the enchanted pathway.

[Earth Passage] was a very valuable spell in that it allowed people to basically skate across any solid surface without any finicky manipulation, albeit at the cost of a significantly increased mana expenditure. It wasn't something mages usually cast on large groups, not unless escaping was of the utmost necessity, and even then, they rarely did so on anyone else.

The Revolution's mages were proficient enough in its use to cast it on the whole group with little notice, but they would be tapped out soon enough.

Oliver glanced back, ensuring that Leonard didn't mind his orders, but got a nod in response, easing his mind. The shadow lingered near him, flickering more erratically.

Considering how powerful he knew Lady Amelia to be, the fact that her spirit was in such distress could only mean the battle in the skies was going badly.

"Keep pushing!" He yelled, urging his team onward. The mages' faces were taut with concentration, and he could spy their hands trembling as they maintained the spell. Yet they maintained the spell, not daring to complain, which allowed them to move far faster than their earlier pace.

The faint tremors of combat above grew stronger as the earth shuddered under some distant force. Each rumble drove them harder, and they all knew that time was against them.

When they finally emerged from the fissure, daylight struck them like a hammer. After so long underground, the brightness was disorienting, forcing Oliver and the others to shield their eyes.

The scene before them was chaos and beauty intertwined. Three massive airships danced among clouds of Griffin Knights, their cannons booming and spells flashing in an intricate ballet of destruction.

Oliver squinted, trying to make sense of the battle. "What's going on?" he asked with urgency.

Leonard's eyes remained fixed on the skies, and against all sense, he seemed to relax. "Our surprise has arrived," he said.

Sure enough, a crimson-and-gold airship appeared soon after, roaring with cannon fire as it pushed back Hassel's forces. Oliver felt his mouth hang in surprise and knew all the others were doing the same.

No one had known they had something like that in reserve, not even him.

His hope grew as the Revolution's secret weapon changed the tide of battle. While he had never doubted they would eventually win, he knew just how much pain and suffering the airship's arrival had spared.

This is amazing, but it's still one airship against three. Sure, it caught them by surprise, but that doesn't mean it will be able to take all three.

Almost immediately afterward, he had to swallow his words as one of the King-Vasily class behemoths fell from the sky, trailing smoke and fire.

Before he could comprehend what had just happened, Leonard shifted into a stance, drawing his attention. His expression darkened, and his gaze swept over the battlefield and back to their surroundings.

"Something's wrong," Leonard murmured.

Oliver barely had time to register the words before a deafening screech of steel filled the air. A force like a hurricane slammed into them, scattering the group. He hit the ground hard, rolling to a stop with his ears ringing and his vision blurred. Shouts and groans filled the air as the others scrambled to their feet.

When Oliver finally stood, shaking the dust from his cloak, his heart froze. Leonard was engaged in a ferocious battle with three masked figures. They moved with blinding speed, drawing his mentor's attention to each other whenever it looked like he might overwhelm one of them. It was all he could do not to lose sight of them, and he knew this was a fight far above his ability.

They have to be Masters. But even then, they are fighting Leonard too well… Fuck, do they know him? Has the King finally lost his patience and sent the Elites at us?

Oliver's gaze fell to the patch on one of the attackers' cloaks—a white sword draped in a black cape. His stomach twisted in recognition.

"The Whiteguard," he whispered, his voice barely audible.

The Whiteguard was the greatest paladin order of the kingdom, known for their excellence in all fields and unwavering dedication to their mission. Leonard himself had once been among their ranks, the greatest of their prodigies. Now, they had come for him.

Oliver's instincts screamed at him to intervene, but the sheer intensity of the fight held him frozen. Leonard deflected a flurry of strikes without effort, but the assassins pressed him relentlessly. They also made sure to remain close enough to the group that he couldn't unleash any truly powerful attack, lest he catch them too. They had come prepared to deal with him specifically.

Leonard parried one blade, only to twist and dodge another before delivering a punishing strike. He moved like a force of nature, but even Oliver could see that he was being tested.

It seemed the enemy thought so, too because one of the assassins broke away from the group and turned toward Oliver and the others. The masked figure raised a blade, and Oliver felt a chill run down his spine.

Before he could take another step, Leonard bull-rushed through the gap and kicked the assassin in the chest, breaking several bones even through the enchanted armor.

"Stay there!" Leonard barked in their direction, pushing another one away with enough force to crater the earth, while the second assassin was punished for his attempt at skewering his throat by getting slapped hard enough that several teeth went flying. "This is my fight."

Oliver hesitated, his hands tightening on his sword. "But—"

"No buts," Leonard snapped, leaving no room for argument. "Protect the others and form a perimeter. That's your duty now."

Reluctantly, Oliver nodded, motioning for the group to fall back. He watched helplessly as Leonard held his ground against the Whiteguard, his golden aura blazing like a lighthouse in the storm.

Again and again, he clashed with the assassins, and for a while, it looked like they had reached a balance. While Oliver wouldn’t say he was catching everything that happened, he could tell that they were falling into a rhythm. Indeed, the fight seemed almost choreographed, with the assassins moving in unison to keep Leonard from bringing his greater might to bear, and Leonard constantly pushing them to prevent anyone from escaping the fight.

Light, they even use the same sword style. These must be some of the best fighters in the Order!

And yet, slowly, inexorably, Leonard was gaining ground. The golden aura now wreathed him completely, and it was only when he finished his maneuver that Oliver realized he had managed to position himself in a way that allowed him to fight without fearing his group would be caught in the crossfire.

Chapter 144 - The Burden of the Justicar - Leonard 47

Leonard let out a slow breath, shifting his posture as he squared off against the assassins. They circled slowly, keeping their white swords pointed at him. His face was unreadable, but inside, a storm raged.

They are from the Whiteguard’s Anathema Division. Only they can get access to Silverite Blessed Swords. They aren’t even trying to hide it.

Deep down, he had known that his decision to rebel would bring him conflict with those he considered allies, but betrayal wasn’t easily forgiven. To see the order he had once called family, the institution that had taken him in when he was first summoned to this world, turn against him so fully? It cut deeper than any blade could.

Leonard ducked under a vicious slash, pivoting sharply to parry a thrust aimed at his ribs. His movements were almost mechanical as he pushed one assassin back with a burst of Light and sidestepped the combined strike of the other two. He knew what they would do just as well as they knew what he would. They had come prepared for this, as shown by the subtle feints and calculated maneuvers designed to exploit the known weaknesses of his style.

It just so happened that he was also acquainted with the martial art they practiced, the Blade of Severance. Nothing was kept from the holy Hero, after all. At least as long as it was the old man who ran things.

They must have prepared to fight me for a while, probably against the Grandmaster. Few other people could have served as my stand-in, and they wouldn’t have bothered sending assassins.

But of course, they had. He wasn’t just any traitor to them; he was the greatest prodigy the Whiteguard had ever seen. His betrayal was personal to them, and the fact that three Master assassins at the top of their rank had been sent confirmed it. The new Grandmaster himself had to have approved this mission.

Leonard ducked under a decapitating blow and increased the rhythm again, intensifying his golden aura as he struck out in a flurry of blows. His blade clashed against theirs, straining the lesser swords and forcing them never to engage for too long. Nonetheless, the assassins adjusted with perfect coordination.

A crack appeared on his third attempt to damage their blades, ruining the Silverite beyond repair, yet they took it in stride without flinching. Another point to show that this was a death squad meant to take him out. The waste of wealth, done with such carelessness, confirmed his suspicions that the Grandmaster had sent them. They had prepared to lose swords worth more than a mansion in Mellassoria.

Now that I think about it, the fact that I wield Dyeus and that it still works for me must be a source of great shame for them since they have decided to stand with Vasily. Their sacred relic is in the hands of the rebel leader. Of course, they would send an elite team to recover it.

The thought stung more than it should have. He had hoped against reason that the Whiteguard would see through the kingdom’s corruption, that they might question their orders. But now he realized how naive he had been.

Leonard feinted left, forcing one assassin into a misstep, and delivered a punishing kick to his side. He heard the satisfying crunch of ribs breaking, but the man barely staggered, quickly regrouping with the others.

The Whiteguard did not falter. The old adage seemed to be true even now.

“Do you still think you can win?” He asked with steel in his voice. “Do you think this ends with anything but your death?”

The assassins didn’t respond. They never did. Their silence was a blade of its own, cutting through his lingering sentimentality.

With a sharp exhale, Leonard shifted his stance, raising his sword with both hands. The golden light around him flared, expanding outward in a radiant halo. He didn’t have time for restraint anymore. He had a responsibility to his people, and however much he would have liked his old comrades to have at least refrained from taking the field against him, he had to deal with reality.

He attacked faster than before, each swing carrying arcs of Light that tore through their formation. The assassins reacted as they could, scattering to avoid the destructive blasts, but they had to sacrifice their offensive.

The field around him erupted with bursts of golden energy as his attacks landed, tearing gouges into the ground and forcing his opponents to constantly reposition. Their previously tight formation began to fray under the assault, and their teamwork unraveled as Leonard pressed harder.

But the assassins were Masters for a reason. They adjusted and, soon enough, tried to counterattack. The air filled with streaks of blinding Light as they called upon their divine connection, imbuing their strikes with the same holy energy Leonard wielded.

For a brief moment, it seemed like the balance would be restored.

Leonard smiled grimly.

They didn’t know. They couldn’t know. Had it been different, they would have never tried to face him.

The constraints of humanity no longer bound him. Where they drew upon the Light’s power like soldiers rationing supplies, Leonard wielded it like a sovereign.

“What foolishness,” he said with sad finality. “To call upon the Light to battle its Chosen.” That blasphemy would have seen him excommunicated, yet he could prove his claim.

He raised his sword, and the golden aura around him surged outward, washing over the broken ground like a tidal wave. The assassins’ Light dimmed and then vanished entirely. Their swords faltered mid-swing, the holy energy dissipating as Leonard’s power smothered theirs.

For the first time, they hesitated.

Leonard didn’t.

With a shout in a language mortal ears couldn’t comprehend, a golden sigil appeared in the air above them. Before their brains could dribble out of their ears as they tried to comprehend the Heavenly Truth, a surge of light exploded outward, overwhelming their senses and driving them to their knees.

They didn’t scream. Leonard hadn’t expected them to. Their minds were strong and their resolve unyielding, but even the greatest warrior couldn’t stand against an assault on their very connection to the divine.

One by one, they slumped to the ground, unconscious.

Leonard stood over them, frowning despite himself as the golden aura began to fade. He stared at the three fallen figures for a moment, trying to decide what to do with them.

I should kill them. It is the smart thing to do. And yet, I’m staying my blade.

He was sure that once he took their masks away, he’d recognize them—there was no one within the Whiteguard he hadn’t trained with and fought beside.

Sighing, he sheathed his blade and stared at their prone forms. He couldn’t afford sentimentality, but neither could he bring himself to end them. His hesitation was uncharacteristic, but this wasn’t like other battles.

Leonard knelt, pressing his hand into the dirt. With a muttered invocation, golden tendrils of light spiraled outward, forming intricate patterns around the fallen assassins. The chains shimmered as they solidified, glowing faintly like sunlight filtered through stained glass.

[Confinement of the Unjust] was a spell he had learned only in theory during his time with the Whiteguard, meant to be a mark of shame—a punishment reserved for those deemed unworthy of the Light’s blessings so that they could reflect on what they took for granted. It severed its victims’ connection to the divine, preventing them from channeling holy power. It was not something he cast lightly, knowing full well the weight it carried.

The kingdom had attempted something similar with him when they branded him a traitor, trying to humiliate him with a slave collar imbued with the very magic that prevented him from saving Belinda. Leonard’s hand twitched at the memory, but he pushed it aside.

This isn’t the same. This is temporary. Necessary.

He stood, dusting his hands off as the glow faded, locking the assassins in a metaphysical cage. They wouldn’t be able to draw upon the Light nor escape its binding, not without his dispelling it—or their deaths.

“Why didn’t you kill them?”

Leonard turned to see Oliver watching him with his brow furrowed. The younger knight’s hand still gripped the hilt of his sword, and tension was evident in his stance.

Leonard’s expression remained neutral. “Because I need information.”

Oliver frowned. “Information?”

“The Whiteguard doesn’t send assassins lightly, especially not of this caliber. Their orders must have come directly from the Grandmaster, which means they know more about the kingdom’s movements than we do.”

Oliver nodded slowly, relaxing. He had seen Leonard’s ruthlessness in battle and knew he would have done the deed if necessary.

“And because they were my comrades,” Leonard admitted quietly, his voice barely audible over the distant sounds of battle. “Once.”

Oliver didn’t press further. It seemed he understood that there were greater priorities at the moment.

Leonard turned to the rest of the strike team to find their expressions ranging from wary to outright shocked. They had seen his power before, but the sight of three Master-ranked Whiteguard assassins subdued so decisively had clearly shaken them. It helped that their connection to the Light was far lesser than the assassins, so they couldn’t understand what had just happened. Their weakness protected them from the Truth.

“Gather the prisoners,” Leonard ordered, shaking them out of their funk. “They won’t be able to fight back but keep a close watch on them. We’ll interrogate them once the battle is over.”

One of the soldiers hesitated. “What if they—”

“They won’t,” Leonard interrupted. “The spell binds their abilities entirely. They’re not a threat.”

The man nodded, moving quickly to secure the unconscious assassins. Leonard turned to Oliver.

“Take the others and guide them back to camp,” he instructed. “Join the other commanders and follow Neer’s orders to prepare for a possible counterattack.”

Oliver hesitated for a moment before saluting sharply. “Yes, Grand Marshal.”

Leonard watched as his student rallied the group. A small flicker of pride stirred in his chest, but the reality of their situation quickly overshadowed it.

His gaze shifted upward to the skies above. The aerial battle raged on, with the revolution’s airship maneuvering ably to fend off the two loyalist vessels. Flashes of light and bursts of flame illuminated the sky, painting the clouds in fiery hues.

Leonard’s eyes narrowed as he spotted Amelia darting through the chaos. She was currently hammering the lowest airship, forcing it to abandon its position lest it get caught between the two rebel forces. Even from this distance, he could sense her strain.

“She’s still holding them off,” he murmured to himself. “But I doubt she’ll last for much longer.”

Their airship tilted sharply, narrowly avoiding a barrage of cannon fire, which ended up exploding in the distance. It was frustrating to see how much damage the aerial battle was causing to the surrounding nature, but it was better the shots went wide than hammering the army’s shields. Though Leonard trusted his men to do their parts, it wasn’t reasonable to believe even a few hundred mages could hold off an aerial bombardment of that scale for long.

Golden light flared around him once more, lifting him into the air. He rose steadily, and his soldiers below paused to watch. Their awe was palpable even as they moved to follow his orders.

Crossing the distance was simply a matter of flexing his will. Now that he didn’t need to worry about vaporizing his people with his mere presence, Leonard allowed his power to unfurl.

To the naked eye, the golden corona that surrounded him grew brighter. To those who could see more, he had become a supernova, altering the fabric of reality with his mere presence.

Amelia turned into a streak of darkness and rushed to his side, immediately knowing it could only be him. Four miles of distance were crossed in a mere second, and Leonard allowed her to bask in his presence and regain some strength. After all, shadows could not exist without light.

The airship did its job. Pollus must know now that he cannot hold the main wards for long if I give it free rein, and the loss of his ships will weaken his position. He’ll have to retreat to the citadel soon.

“You’ve done well.” He murmured, “Now let me put an end to this.”

He had a city to conquer.

Chapter 145 - Thunder from Above - Leonard 48

Leonard ascended higher, allowing his searing aura to brighten the darkening skies. The revolution's airship struggled valiantly against its opponents, with the crew expertly maneuvering to dodge bursts of cannon fire and retaliating with its own barrages, but it was obvious that the odds were against them. The two enemy airships pressed their assault, forcing it to constantly shift and reduce its attack ability.

From his vantage point, Leonard could easily see that the situation wasn't tenable. The enemy forces were relentless, having managed to recover their formation, and their cannons were powerful enough that his airship couldn't tank them.

Another dizzying maneuver allowed the rebels to avoid being smashed by a powerful laser, but it was evident that without Amelia to balance the scales, they would lose soon enough.

Yeah, that's not going to happen.

Leonard raised Dyeus, infusing it with his mana. The sword hummed, eager to unleash its full might. His eyes locked onto the nearest enemy vessel, and he found it crewed by men dressed in blue, indicating they were part of the Royal Air Force, not the Duchy's.

I should have known they wouldn't have the local personnel to crew them, given how much they had to bleed the treasury to build them in the first place.

Its cannons reloaded quickly, preparing another volley aimed directly at the revolution's airship. The shot was clear, and Leonard knew its shields wouldn't be able to weather it.

He swung.

The motion was deceptively simple, but its effects were cataclysmic. The sky split apart, dark clouds tearing asunder like a curtain drawn open by unseen hands—a blinding arc of golden light cut through the heavens. A blade of divine power left the world breathless in its wake.

For a moment, all was silent.

Then came the Light.

It burst forth in a wave, consuming everything in its path. Soldiers on the ground on both sides shielded their eyes, some crying out in awe and others in terror. The battlefield froze as the attack's sheer brilliance blasted the war-torn region, baring all its scars.

When the light faded, the devastation became clear. Once a proud symbol of the kingdom's might, the massive airship had been cleaved in two. Its halves drifted apart as though in slow motion, with sparks and debris trailing behind them. Fires ignited along its severed edges, and the screams of panicked crew members echoed faintly as the ground inevitably grew closer.

Cheers erupted from the revolution's forces below, spreading through their ranks in a wave of elation. The sight of the second of the loyalists' most fearsome weapons falling from the sky was a victory they would not soon forget.

Leonard, however, did not linger on his triumph. His gaze shifted to the remaining loyalist vessel, where he found its captain visibly shaken by the turn of events. The revolution's airship seized the opportunity, pressing its advantage with renewed vigor. Cannons roared as its artillery struck true, ripping through the loyalist vessel's defenses.

The remaining ship attempted a desperate maneuver. It released a massive cloud of corrosive gas in a toxic shroud designed to obscure its retreat and deter pursuit. The green mist spread rapidly, ominously staining the broken skies.

Leonard narrowed his eyes. No, you are not.

He extended his left hand, and his golden aura coalesced there. The gas cloud trembled as if caught within a titan's grasp. Leonard clenched his fist, and the Light surged forward, enveloping the toxic haze from all sides at once. The gas dissolved instantly, purified by his divine will, leaving the skies clear once more.

"You should allow our men to finish the last vessel," Amelia murmured tiredly from behind him.

Leonard nodded, recognizing the importance of granting them that victory, and watched as his airship unleashed a devastating barrage. Three times, it smashed against the wards, and three times, they held until the fourth and greatest barrage. The loyalist vessel shuddered as its protections finally broke under the strain. Before long, its hull splintered, listed to one side, and began its slow, agonizing descent.

The skies above Hassel were theirs.

The battlefield erupted in cheers once more, reverberating across the plains. But Leonard's focus turned to the city below.

With its main obstacle finally removed, the revolution's airship also shifted its attention to Hassel's wards. With its cannons already hot, it took only a minute before a blast caused the ward to ripple and crackle, forcing the defenders to commit more of their reserves to shore them up.

Leonard hovered above it all, observing the scene with a calculating eye. The bombing run was draining the airship's mana reserves rapidly enough that he could sense the crystals depleting with every shot. He could step in and end it now, shatter the ward with a single strike—they were weak enough now that the backlash wouldn’t be excessive. Yet he hesitated.

No. Let them do this. I can use the time to organize the breach, and it will be good for the army to see that it doesn't have to rely on its champions to win.

If the airship breached Hassel's defenses, it would cement its place in the revolution's growing legend. The people would speak of its crew, of the daring assault that toppled the kingdom's fortress that even the Void hadn't been able to breach. Leonard's power had already overshadowed so much of their struggle. This victory would belong to them. It also helped that he wanted to obscure any possible leak about what he had done to the leyline.

People trusted him enough that his reputation could take the hit, but that didn't mean he should allow damaging information to spread.

I’ll need to get Damien on this.

He descended slightly, the Light around him dimming as he allowed his aura to recede.

Amelia joined him, her shadowy form solidifying as she approached. "You're not going to finish it, then?" she asked for confirmation.

"They can handle it," Leonard replied. "The revolution needs more than me. It needs heroes they can rally behind, victories they can claim as their own."

Amelia tilted her head, her expression unreadable. "You're not doing this just for their sake."

"I'm doing this for all our sakes," he insisted firmly. "If this is to last, the people must believe they have the power to change their world. Not just me."

Amelia nodded, evidently deciding that this discussion could wait. "I'm glad to see that. The kid who fought at my side against the Void wouldn't have hesitated to throw himself against any obstacle to prevent a single death."

Leonard's gaze remained on the city below, though his eyes darkened. "The kid I was wouldn't have made it this far."

They floated silently above the battlefield for a few minutes, watching the events unfold. The revolutionaries were rallying, buoyed by their victory, and the Hassel's wards weakened with every passing moment.

"You're trembling," Leonard noted with some worry.

"I'm fine," Amelia replied curtly, though her voice lacked its usual sharpness.

He didn't press the point, but he could tell she was nearing complete exhaustion. She had burned through most of her mana reserves during the fight, and though she wouldn't admit it, the strain was evident in every slight tremor of her body. Amelia had incredible bodily control. She could have stopped them had she even a hundredth of her reserves left. That she was stubbornly still flying alongside him only made it clear that even as bright as she was, she was as human as everyone else.

"Let's return to camp," he said, extending a hand toward her. "You need rest."

Amelia hesitated for a moment before nodding. Shadows coiled around her, instinctively reaching for Leonard's Light like flowers seeking the sun.

Leonard drew on his element, enveloping them both in its radiance. With a subtle flex of his will, the world around them rippled. Space folded in on itself, and the very fabric of reality bent to his command. For a fleeting moment, they were nowhere and everywhere, slipping out of phase with the physical world.

When they reappeared, they were just outside the revolution's camp, standing at the perimeter of the arcane protections surrounding it. Layer upon layer of shields, designed to repel intruders or alert the camp to danger, blocked their path. Leonard's Light flared briefly, and the wards bent around them, parting like water before a ship.

They touched down in the center of the camp, and Leonard allowed the Light to recede. They were noticed immediately, and cheers erupted from the soldiers. Men raised their weapons in salute, opening a path for them to walk.

Leonard raised a hand, acknowledging them with a small nod. Amelia walked beside him, using what little strength she had left to maintain her air of dignity. The sight of her standing tall despite her exhaustion seemed to inspire the troops even more.

The celebration didn't last long. A distant rumble reminded everyone that the battle was far from over. Artillery fire from Hassel began to rain down again, and though the frequency had diminished, each strike clearly said they couldn't celebrate yet. The revolutionaries quickly returned to their positions, and the camp moved back to its organized chaos.

Amelia's gaze turned toward the horizon, where the glow of cannon fire illuminated the walls. "They're pulling back some of the siege engines," she observed with naught a waver. "Pollus must be consolidating his forces at the citadel."

Leonard nodded. "It makes sense. He knows the city will fall soon. He must be preparing for a final stand."

"He knows resistance is futile at this point, but he'll still sacrifice thousands of his own men to delay us in the hopes the Royal Army will get here in time," Amelia said, a faint edge of frustration creeping into her voice.

"Which is why we need you rested and ready for what's to come," Leonard replied, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Come. Let's debrief with Neer and David."

The command tent was a stark contrast to the chaos outside. Maps and reports covered the central table, and the air purifying wards prevented outside smells from entering, leaving the area sterile. Neer stood over the table, scanning the latest intelligence, while David paced nearby.

"Grand Marshal," Neer greeted Leonard and Amelia as they entered. Her tone was formal, but there was a hint of relief in her eyes. "You were successful, then?"

"The leyline is not a problem anymore," Leonard said simply. "And our airship is dealing with the wards."

David stopped pacing and turned to face them. "And the assassins you sent back with your squire?"

"He's a knight now. And they are fully contained," Leonard replied. "They won't be a problem."

Amelia moved toward the nearest chair and sank into it with a soft groan. Her shoulders slumped, and for a moment, she looked like she might fall apart entirely. She opened her mouth to speak but hesitated, her cheeks coloring faintly.

"I—" she began.

Leonard stepped forward and lightly bopped her on the forehead with his knuckles. "You've done more than enough," he said, a rare softness in his voice. "Rest. That's an order."

Amelia blinked at him, surprise flickering across her face before she let out a small, tired laugh. "Yes, sir."

Her eyes fluttered shut, and within moments, she was asleep. Her breathing evened out, and the tension melted from her body. Neer raised an eyebrow but said nothing, while David smirked faintly and shook his head.

Leonard turned his attention back to the map, his gaze steely as he surveyed the battlefield. The wards of Hassel were weakening, and the revolution's forces were poised to strike. But he knew the real fight was still ahead. Pollus was no fool, and the citadel would not fall easily.

"Let her rest," Leonard said, his voice low. "We'll need everyone at their best for what's to come."

Chapter 146 - Behind the Walls - Jeremiah 5

The mood inside the great hall of Hassel's central keep was somber. The heavy stone walls, stripped bare to make room for more maps, made the room feel like a tomb, which certainly didn't help.

The generals and commanders of the loyalist forces sat around a long table, and the tension was so thick it seemed to hang in the air like smoke from a poorly vented hearth.

Jeremiah leaned against the far wall, silently observing the meeting. Being the youngest in the room, he had no formal seat among the war council, but his presence had been earned with blood. His victory over Weiss' squire had proven his cunning and resolve. It also granted the army enough time to prepare Pepperhof so they could retreat from what would have been a death trap.

For now, Count Pollus seemed content to keep him as an adjutant and occasional confidant, but everyone knew he was destined for greater heights.

That is if I survive long enough to get there.

He observed without drawing attention to himself, noting every gesture and expression. The biggest change from the last meeting was that the generals wore their fatigue plainly. Their faces were lined with worry, and their movements were stiff from too many sleepless nights. They had all known Treon’s airship had been taken down, but seeing it retrofitted and flying against them was a sight they wouldn’t forget anytime soon.

"Our Air Force was supposed to hold the skies," General Raldir muttered, gripping a goblet so tightly that Jeremiah wondered if the enchanted silver would bend. "And now it's gone. Gone! The pride of the duchy was defeated in just a few hours! What are we supposed to do with a handful of Griffin Knights? They can't even take to the sky without being annihilated by the enemy's artillery.

“Obviously, we’ll keep them in reserve to protect the sky above the citadel," another gaunt general shot back, taut with irritation. "Unless you have some brilliant idea to conjure another fleet out of thin air."

Raldir's face darkened, but Count Pollus raised a hand before he could respond.

"That's enough," he said, ending the row. He was seated at the head of the table with his hands steepled beneath his chin. The flickering light from the chandelier above cast deep shadows across his face, emphasizing the sharpness of his features. He had lost weight during the campaign, and not because of a change in diet. "We all know what's at stake here. Sniping at each other won't change the situation."

Jeremiah's respect for Pollus was grudging but real. The Count was a master of control, always keeping his emotions in check. Even now, when his city teetered on the edge of collapse, his voice remained steady, his demeanor composed. He didn't often intervene directly, but when he did, everybody listened, even in such a dire situation.

A younger, more hot-headed commander dared to voice what everyone else was thinking. "What we need to know is when the Kingdom's forces will relieve us. With the Great Traitor and his mistress leading the charge, we can't hold out much longer on our own."

This is especially true when our artillery is being moved away from the walls. The wards will fail within a day or two, but everyone already knows that.

All eyes turned to Pollus. Jeremiah watched the count closely, noting the subtle tension in his jaw and the way his fingers tapped against the table for just a fraction of a second before stilling.

"The Kingdom's forces are finished mustering," he said evenly. "They will march soon."

It was the answer everyone wanted to hear, but it wasn't enough, and it wasn't even the whole truth. Jeremiah knew that much from the way Pollus stared straight ahead. He didn't betray the Count's confidence, though. The older man had told him only days ago that the army was mustering, to be sure, but it was deliberately taking its time. If help was coming, it wouldn't be in time to save Hassel.

Whether the King or the Prime Minister is the culprit, it is evident that they don't want to deal with local forces. This is the perfect opportunity for them to take Hetnia and divide it among themselves.

The room fell into a heavy silence. The generals exchanged glances, their earlier arguments forgotten in the face of this uncertain promise.

"We need to prepare for the worst," General Raldir said at last, eyes hooded. "If the inner wards fall—"

"They won't," Pollus interrupted sharply. "The citadel's defenses are stronger than anything they've faced before. Let them waste their resources against our walls. It will cost them dearly."

Jeremiah admired Pollus's confidence, even if he didn't entirely share it. The Hero's reputation alone was enough to unnerve even the most seasoned warriors, and the Mistress of Shadow had repeatedly shown that she was beyond their ability to handle.

The meeting dragged on for another hour as the generals debated strategies and contingency plans. Jeremiah remained silent throughout, knowing his place. When the council finally adjourned, the commanders filed out one by one, grim-faced.

Once the room was nearly empty, Jeremiah approached Pollus. The Count sat back in his chair, rubbing his temples as if trying to stave off a headache.

"Do you think we have a chance?" Jeremiah asked quietly, devoid of accusation.

The words hung in the air. For a heartbeat, Pollus didn't move, and Jeremiah's stomach twisted. He'd grown bolder over the harsh months of this campaign, but his place in the hierarchy hadn't truly changed. He was still barely above a commoner, elevated by skill and necessity, and Pollus—Count Pollus, High Noble of the realm—had every right to strike him down for such insolence.

But instead of anger, Pollus sighed wearily. He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers under his chin as his gaze lifted to meet Jeremiah's.

"Do you want the truth?" the Count asked, his voice low and measured.

Jeremiah nodded, unsure of what else to say.

Pollus leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table. "No," he said simply. "We don't."

The bluntness of the answer caught Jeremiah off guard, and for a moment, he forgot his place entirely. "Then why—?"

"Why keep fighting?" Pollus finished for him. "Why keep these men and women clinging to hope when we're surrounded, outmatched, and abandoned?"

Jeremiah said nothing, but his silence was answer enough.

The Count reached for a decanter of wine sitting forgotten at the corner of the table. He poured two glasses, swirling the deep crimson liquid to aerate it, and slid one across the table toward Jeremiah.

"Sit," Pollus said, the command softened by the fatigue in his voice.

Jeremiah hesitated. Sharing a drink with a High Noble was a breach of every custom he'd ever known, but his superior didn't seem to care. After a moment, Jeremiah pulled out a chair and sat across from him.

Pollus took a long sip of his wine before speaking again. "The truth is, Jeremiah, we've been left to die. The King has more pressing concerns than saving Hassel, and the Duke won’t intercede on our behalf, having been promised complete control over the province. He'll let us bleed out here and waste as much of Weiss’s forces trying to take the citadel. I have even been given the order to raise the blood wards if I feel it is needed.”

The bitterness in his tone was unmistakable, and for a moment, Jeremiah saw the man behind the title: a leader burdened by his own liege's absolute incompetence and who had been set against impossible odds. No matter their confidence at the campaign's beginning, the Royal Court should have known better than to leave them alone against the Hero, ragtag army or not.

Jeremiah was willing to concede that no one could expect Weiss to raise a competent fighting force out of slaves and broken men. But the people who had seen the man obliterate the forces of the Void couldn't have believed Hetnia's local troops would be enough. Not without debilitating losses, at least. A few dozen airmen and paladins were certainly not enough to change the balance.

"Then why not surrender?" Jeremiah asked cautiously. They were already beyond treason anyway. At this point, he needed to know where things stood if he wanted to survive.

Pollus's lips curled into a humorless smile. "Surrender to the revolutionaries? To Weiss? And what—throw myself at their mercy, hoping they'll grant me a quick death?" He shook his head. "No. If we're to die, let it be a good death. Let Hassel stand as a symbol of loyalty and duty, even if the King has forgotten what that means."

Jeremiah took a sip of his wine, the rich flavor doing little to calm his racing thoughts. Pollus's resolve was admirable in its way, but Jeremiah couldn't share it. He'd fought and bled for this city, but he wasn't ready to throw his life away for a cause that no longer seemed winnable.

Still, he masked his thoughts behind a carefully neutral expression. "A good death," he echoed, raising his glass.

Pollus clinked his glass against Jeremiah's, the gesture oddly informal for a man of his station. "To the walls of Hassel and the men who'll help them hold."

There was something in his tone as he said that that made Jeremiah's hair stand on the back of his neck. Pollus never seemed like someone ready to throw his life away, not without making a good attempt before. That he was being so passive should have been a sign that his will had been broken, but Jeremiah wasn't so naive.

No, the old man is planning something. Considering how many thousands died at his hands during his career, it's likely to be truly heinous if he's not sharing it.

That meant he needed to plan his next steps quickly. Jeremiah didn't want to get caught up in Pollus's plans.

They drank in silence for a while, seemingly enjoying the moment. Jeremiah spent the time considering his options. His connections to the capital were tenuous but not nonexistent. If he could leverage them, perhaps there was still a way to escape this doomed city.

However, he'd need to find the contact. If he hadn't already fled.

But before he could lose himself entirely in his plans, Pollus spoke again.

"Don't waste your breath hoping for salvation," the Count murmured. He didn't look at Jeremiah, his gaze fixed on the map. "No elite are coming to save us. I know for a fact that a team of assassins—the Kingdom's best—was sent after Weiss."

Jeremiah felt the blood drain from his face.

"They failed," Pollus continued, keeping his tone as calm as if he were discussing the weather. "And not just failed—they were obliterated. That man destroyed one of our airships with a single swing of his blade. Do you truly believe the King has anyone left who could tip the scales against a monster like that? No, those with enough power to face Weiss are too independent to coerce, and they know better than to fight for a lost cause."

Jeremiah swallowed hard, tightening his grip on his glass. The Count's words left no room for doubt. Weiss was a force beyond comprehension. And if the King's finest couldn't stop him, what chance did anyone else have?

Pollus finally turned his gaze to Jeremiah, his eyes sharp despite his exhaustion. "We're on our own, kid. Whatever hope you're clinging to—let it go. Focus on what's in front of you. Do your duty well, and don't waste time."

Jeremiah nodded, keeping his expression carefully blank.

He couldn't afford to let go of hope—not yet. If there was even the slightest chance of escape, he had to take it.

He drained the rest of his wine and stood, setting the glass back on the table. "I'll see to the preparations for the retreat from the outer walls, then."

Pollus waved a hand in dismissal, already turning his attention back to the map.

Jeremiah left the chamber, his footsteps echoing in the empty halls. The cold night air hit him as he stepped outside, but it did little to calm the fire that had settled in his veins.

The Hero was unstoppable. The King had abandoned them. Hassel was doomed.

But Jeremiah wasn't ready to die—not yet.

Chapter 147 - Live in the Moment - Oliver 14

The sudden silence jolted Oliver awake. He found the absence of the constant rumble of cannons more jarring than their sound, as they had fired uninterrupted throughout the night. For a moment, he remained still, his pulse thrumming in his ears. The faint glow of dawn seeped through the canvas of his tent, soft and pale. He was safe, and a warm body was pressed against him.

Lucy stirred against him, arm draped over his chest, her breathing steady and soft. He glanced down at her—blonde hair cascaded across the pillow, and her face was relaxed in sleep. She finally looked serene, as if she had found a rock to hold onto.

Having seen her evolution from a scared, abandoned teenage girl with only a few spells under her belt to a formidable mage, he understood just how much it meant for her to feel so at ease. Like everyone in his squad, her life story was not easy. Although he didn't know how this thing between them would end, he appreciated her presence more than he could put into words.

Thoughts of Margaret and what could have been crossed his mind, as they often did, but he didn't linger on them. Today, he couldn't afford to be distracted.

Oliver exhaled, allowing the quiet moment to stretch. For a fleeting second, he entertained the idea of staying there, of giving in to the weariness that clung to his bones. He felt both tired and energetic at the same time. He was stretched thin yet eager for more. Power thrummed under his skin, begging to be unleashed, yearning to be shaped into even a fraction of what he had witnessed.

But reality hit him like a wave, pulling his thoughts back to the previous day.

The expedition. The leyline and its destruction. The sudden attack that transformed an already complicated mission into chaos. His knighting—by Leonard, as he had always wanted. The assassins. The aerial battle that set the sky ablaze with flames and fury.

It felt like a lifetime compressed into a single day. Twelve hours, and yet it could have easily been a month. The insight he gained from watching his mentor battle three Masters and then reveal his glorious form to everyone surpassed anything he had experienced, aside from a Blessing. It would take him a long time to fully grasp what he had witnessed, if he ever could, but he could already sense his connection to the Light growing.

He whispered a silent prayer, his chest swelling with gratitude for Leonard and all that the man had done. He prayed for his continued safety, for the strength to carry the burden of his new position, and for the courage to face whatever lay ahead.

"Stop thinking so loudly," Lucy mumbled, muffled by the pillow.

Oliver blinked and looked down to find her squinting up at him, her green eyes still clouded with sleep. She groaned as he shifted, attempting to sit up.

"Don't get up yet," she murmured, reaching for him. "We can stay here a little longer. We deserve it after yesterday."

He chuckled softly, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "Maybe we do. But that's not the world we live in right now."

Lucy groaned once more, pressing her face deeper into the pillow. "The world can wait," she mumbled, but he could sense her resolve weakening. She was acutely aware of how important today was.

The artillery had stopped firing, which could only mean one thing.

Hassel's wards are ready to fall. They must be strengthening the protections around the camp to endure the backlash.

Oliver swung his legs over the side of the cot, feeling the morning air's chill prickling his skin as he stood. "The world doesn't wait for anyone, Lucy. And besides…" He began to dress, his voice growing firm. "This is when the real work begins."

He wasn't going to be late on his first official day as a Captain, especially not on the day the Revolution entered Hetnia's capital.

She sat up with a dramatic sigh, stretching her arms above her head before rubbing at her eyes. "You're annoyingly earnest in the morning."

He grinned. "And you're annoyingly stubborn."

"Someone has to be, or you'd end up old and wrinkled, and ruin your pretty face," she quipped, slipping out of bed to get dressed herself. Oliver peered into a nearby mirror—and hadn't his life changed that he could now afford to bring a mirror with his tent to camp?—to examine his features.

"I'm manly, not pretty," he definitely didn't pout.

By the time he stepped out of the tent, fully armored and ready, the camp was already stirring. His squad was waiting for him, likely having been prodded by Esmeria, which showed that at least someone hadn't spent the night celebrating. The teasing smiles on some of their faces made him pause, but, mercifully, no one said a word.

More than anything, that told him they grasped the seriousness of the moment.

"Good morning, Sir Oliver," Hector said, a faint smirk dancing on his lips as he saluted.

"Good morning," Oliver replied, unable to suppress a smile. "Report?"

Hector nodded. "The call has gone out to assemble. The final assault is about to commence."

He nodded. "Let's not keep them waiting."

And just like that, Hetnia's campaign is nearing its end. Oh, I'm sure we'll spend days slogging through the city before we take it—it's simply too vast to fall all at once—but once we break through the wards, it will just be a matter of time.

As the squad lined up behind him, Oliver glanced back at the tent. Lucy stepped out, fully dressed, her hair pulled back into a loose braid. She gave him a small, encouraging smile before joining the others in line. Technically, she should have been there before him, but he thought he could afford to give her some leeway this time. After all, she didn't have the advantage of an Expert's constitution.

The atmosphere was thick with anticipation as they made their way to the assembly point. A faint hum of magic and the distant clatter of weapons being prepared filled the silence. Oliver could feel his hands tingling with the urge to do something, anything, but he remained still and impassive. Despite his nerves, he was confident that victory was theirs.

The Light would guide them. It always had.

The assembly stretched out in disciplined ranks, soldiers standing shoulder to shoulder in lines that seemed to vanish into the horizon. The crowd was behaving remarkably well, as it was the conclusion of a long campaign.

I don't think anyone expected us to win this decisively. We all knew Leonard would lead us to victory, one way or another, but we’ve only ever faced minor setbacks. Beyond Woodsman's Town, we remain undefeated. That’s not supposed to happen in war.

And suddenly, the priests' ramblings about this being a holy war with a predetermined end no longer seemed like foolishness. Even the most skeptical men had to acknowledge there was something divine in their success.

Oliver stopped only when he arrived at the frontline, as befitted his new rank. Behind him, his nascent Corp arrayed themselves, proudly standing alongside veteran soldiers. Above them, the camp's protective shields thickened, transforming from a barely perceptible dome of light into a solid presence. It wasn't the kind of thing that could be sustained for long, which meant they were about to begin. The soldiers remained silent, their gazes fixed ahead, waiting.

It didn't take long for the Grand Marshal to arrive.

Leonard strode into view with the easy confidence of a man who carried the weight of a nation on his shoulders and bore it as lightly as a feather. His golden hair caught the light, and his armor, the majestically decorated official one, shone with inner brilliance. He moved with purpose, radiating calm authority.

At his side, Amelia walked with equal poise. As always, she was striking in a way that commanded attention effortlessly. Her dark cloak flowed around her like living smoke, and her piercing purple gaze swept over the gathered forces with an almost predatory sharpness. Even in this solemn moment, her movements held a grace that could have belonged to a queen.

The two ascended the wooden podium that had been erected just a few minutes earlier, boldly emblazoned with the Revolution's golden sword on a crimson field across its front. Leonard took his place at the center, and the murmurs of anticipation shifted into a reverent silence.

Oliver watched as Leonard scanned the crowd, his presence magnetic. When he finally spoke, his voice resonated with power and a deep sense of conviction. "Soldiers of the Revolution, Brothers and Sisters, Freemen," Leonard began, audible all over the field through his presence alone. “We stand here today on the precipice of history."

The crowd's silence deepened, the solemnity of his words drawing them in.

"Our cause is that of freedom for all. It is just," he continued. "It is righteous. And because of that, it is inevitable."

There was no arrogance in his tone, only an unshakable belief.

"For too long, this land has been shackled by greed and corruption," Leonard said, his voice rising. "The privilege of a few has come at the expense of the many. But no more. Today, we fight not just for victory but for freedom—true freedom. For rights that are not only granted to the privileged but to all. For prosperity that belongs to everyone, not stolen by a select few."

The soldiers began to shift as the words ignited something within them. Even Oliver felt the spark catch in his chest and grow into a steady flame.

Leonard raised his hand, and golden light began to emanate from him, spreading outward like ripples in water. "The Heavens have witnessed our struggle, and they have blessed us. This cause is no longer solely one of mortal grievance; it is divine."

As the ripples passed over the soldiers, they began to kneel one by one, their heads bowed as they softly started to glow. Leonard's radiance wasn't overwhelming but rather a subtle, profound Light that filled them with seemingly limitless strength.

This is not the [Halo of the Righteous] I know. It's so much more.

Before them, the city's artillery roared to life. Shells arced high into the sky in a desperate attempt to disrupt the moment. Yet, each shot disintegrated midair, dissolving into harmless motes before it could reach the gathered forces. The soldiers didn't flinch.

Leonard's blessing reached its crescendo, and the golden light settled over the army like a protective mantle. He looked out over them, his expression gentle, like a father gazing at his son. "Stand tall, my brothers and sisters. The time for fear is over. The time for hesitation has passed. Today, we take the Light to Hassel."

The soldiers rose to their feet, shouting in praise, holy fervor in their eyes. The atmosphere had shifted entirely—where there had been anticipation, there was now purpose.

Leonard turned his gaze skyward. The massive silhouette of the revolutionary airship loomed above, its cannons gleaming in the sunlight. He raised his hand, and his voice echoed like a thunderclap.

"Begin the bombardment!"

The airship's engines roared as it shifted into position, and its guns swiveled toward the city. The first volley rang out, and a deafening barrage streaked through the air and slammed into Hassel's wards. The shimmering barriers flared under the assault, crackling as they struggled to hold.

"Take down the wards. Leave no quarter.” Leonard ordered.

The soldiers shouted in agreement, their voices rolling across the camp like a wave. Oliver cjoined them as the flame in his chest grew into a roaring inferno. The final assault had begun, and there was no turning back.

As the airship's artillery fire intensified, Leonard stepped down from the podium, Amelia close behind him. For a brief moment, their eyes met Oliver's, and he felt a quiet reassurance pass between them.

Today would not be easy, but with Leonard leading them, victory didn't just seem possible—it felt inevitable.

Chapter 148 - It is Time - Leonard 49

The world around Leonard roared with fury and fire as the revolutionary airship continued its relentless assault. He stood as a sentinel, immovable amid the chaos, his crimson cloak billowing in the winds of war. The airship hovered like a mechanical beast in the skies above, belching flames and steel in continuous waves.

For five long minutes, the bombardment crashed against Hassel's ancient wards. Each impact sent ripples of energy cascading across the shimmering barrier, illuminating the city's districts in bursts of blinding light. The air vibrated with the unleashed power, and even Leonard, accustomed to the raw devastation of war, felt surprised as the earth trembled beneath his boots.

The sound was deafening. Cannon after cannon roared as if the heavens themselves were breaking apart. The main attack, a spear of concentrated energy, lanced into the wards repeatedly, further weakening them with each strike.

After days of stress and lacking the infinite reserve of a leyline, the wards ultimately failed with a deafening roar.

A shockwave erupted as the magical barriers fell in a dazzling burst of energy; the backlash of centuries-old enchantments unraveled in an instant. Dust and debris surged like a tidal wave, washing over the battlefield. The force of it could have crushed any ordinary man, but the protections around the camp held firm, as they had known in advance to prepare for this moment.

Leonard allowed his power to flow, radiating calm amidst the storm. He watched as the cloud of dust swirled around the shields until it finally settled, revealing the walls of Hassel—mighty and unyielding, but now exposed for the first time in centuries.

No longer protected. No longer untouchable.

It was a bittersweet moment. He had lost good friends protecting them.

I’d like to believe they would understand. The people I fought alongside sacrificed their lives to give everyone a better future. I’m simply taking that ideal to its natural conclusion.

He turned and raised his voice, reaching the furthest ranks. "Prepare yourselves!"

The soldiers stirred, eager for what was about to unfold. Lines tightened, and weapons were prepared. A hum of anticipation rippled through the ranks as mages, blazing with arcane power, stepped forward.

"Now!"

The mage corps sprang into action, and their combined might surged forward in a hail of devastation. Fireballs soared through the air, leaving blazing trails as they crashed against the walls. Lightning bolts erupted, hitting their targets with remarkable accuracy. Massive stones shattered, and the few remaining defenders—whether brave or reckless—were swept away by the onslaught of elemental fury.

Though reinforced with steel and layers of enchantments, the gates of Hassel stood no chance. They crumbled into a pile of smoldering rubble under the relentless barrage, and a gaping breach opened in the city's defenses.

Leonard descended the podium in a fluid jump, containing his presence so that it felt like a heavy blanket as he strode toward his warhorse. The massive beast pawed at the ground impatiently, as if sensing the significance of what was to come.

He mounted with a smooth leap, his golden aura spreading over the stallion. He drew Dyeus, which sang with pure joy at the prospect of purging anyone who dared to stand against the Chosen. The blade had gradually become more active as the battles shifted from easily overcoming small towns to confronting more formidable foes. It had yet to awaken fully, but Leonard didn't begrudge it. No one in Hetnia could provide a challenge like the Incarnation of the Void had.

"With me!" he shouted.

The cavalry burst into action, surging forward behind him in tight formations. Throughout the campaign, their already formidable steeds had become even more impressive, transforming into moving behemoths weighing up to half a ton. Spells at the Journeyman tier and mere gunfire failed to deter them, and they could cover a mile in mere seconds. Although it was costly to keep them fed and cared for, a well-trained cavalry still held value in a world dominated by guns and spells for good reason.

As they charged, the earth trembled under the weight of the thunderous beat of hooves and the thousands of boots that followed. Leonard stood as a beacon at the forefront, drawing attention to himself in case anyone was foolish enough to maintain their position.

The mages' bombardment continued as they advanced, scouring the walls for any remaining defenders.

The path ahead was littered with debris and shattered stone, but it was devoid of threats. Once a symbol of Hassel's impenetrable might, the main gate lay in ruins, reduced to a pile of charred rubble.

As they drew near, Leonard sent a spark of light into the air, and the bombardment came to a halt. Silence fell, broken only by the heavy breathing of soldiers and the distant cries from within the city.

It will take some time to reconstitute the wards after Hassel is ours, especially since the leyline will need to recover completely before it can be tapped into. However, I don’t believe the Royal Army will hasten their progress any more than they already have. If they had wanted to, they could have been here by now, which means they want me to take Hassel and have an excuse to purge the entire region. We’ll see if it goes that way.

The walls continued to crumble around Leonard as he led his soldiers deeper into the city. The air was thick with smoke and dust, the acrid stench of war seeping into every breath. Buildings flanked the cobbled streets, their darkened windows watching the invading force like the hollow eyes of the dead. Leonard's golden aura cast a warm light on the fierce faces of the men marching behind him.

He turned in his saddle to address his commanders, who rode closely behind him. "The time has come. You know your orders."

Thanks to Amelia's meticulous months of scouting, each unit had been thoroughly briefed on its objectives. Her shadows had mapped every street, every chokepoint, and every strategic resource within the city. This assault would not be a blind rush. Leonard wanted a calculated strike and had designed it to decisively break Hassel's resistance. The less time they spent fighting, the fewer civilians would die.

When only the men selected to lead the main thrust with him remained, he urged his steed forward.

Before them stood a stout, imposing structure—the Royal Army barracks, its stone walls weathered yet steadfast, having survived the devastating bombardment only due to its distance from the wall. The banners of Haylich fluttered defiantly in the wind, and through the narrow arrow slits, the gleam of weapons could be seen.

Leonard raised his hand, halting his men. "Hold here."

The soldiers obeyed instantly, forming a disciplined line as they waited for his command. Leonard dismounted, his boots crunching on the rubble-strewn ground. He approached the barracks with measured steps, deliberately keeping his sword sheathed at his side. He had nothing to fear from the men within. Even if anyone were stupid enough to attack him, they'd only tire themselves further.

"Show yourself," he called out, his voice ringing in the stillness.

For a moment, there was only silence, and he nearly thought he'd have to drag them out personally. Then, a man appeared atop the battlements, dressed in the polished armor of a Royal Army officer. His weathered face bore a grim determination, and his sword hummed with a skill—an Expert, likely the Captain, judging by the emblem on his chest. Soon after, he was accompanied by a few dozen men, all dirty and with hooded eyes.

Leonard inclined his head slightly, a gesture of respect. "I am Leonard Weiss, Grand Marshal of the Revolution. By my command, the mighty walls of Hassel have been breached. Surrender now, and I give you my word that you and your men will not be harmed."

A murmur spread among the ranks of defenders, but the officer silenced them with a raised hand. He glared down at Leonard, his expression unyielding. "We know who you are, Weiss," he spat. "The Great Traitor who has turned against his own people, leading a mob of brigands and slaves to pillage and murder."

Leonard's jaw tightened, yet his voice remained calm. "You've been lied to. I fight not to destroy but to build—a new world where everyone is free, where none suffer under the yoke of oppression. Look around you. Your walls have fallen, and your defenses are shattered. Hassel is lost. There is no need for further bloodshed."

The officer laughed bitterly. "Spare me your lies. We've heard the stories—your men butcher families, burn villages, and hand the innocent over to slaves to do as they please. Is that your idea of freedom?"

Leonard would have dearly liked to strike the lying cur, but he forced himself to remain calm. "Those stories are nothing but propaganda. Look at me. Look at the men behind me. Do we appear to be savages to you?"

The officer's gaze swept over the assembled soldiers, but his expression remained unchanged. "It doesn't matter. We are men of Haylich, and we will die like men of Haylich—with weapons in our hands and honor in our hearts."

Leonard closed his eyes for a moment, exhaling slowly. He had hoped to avoid this.

"Very well," he said, opening his eyes. "You've made your choice."

He turned back to his men. "Prepare to seize the barracks. Do not waste time, but spare those who do not raise their weapons."

The soldiers moved into position, still softly glowing with the power he had granted them. Leonard drew his sword, and this time, Dyeus shimmered with anger.

"On my command," he said.

The defenders unleashed the first volley, with bullets and elemental bolts raining down from the battlements. Leonard raised his hand, and a barrier of golden light shimmered into existence, harmlessly absorbing the projectiles.

"Forward!" he shouted.

The revolutionaries surged toward the barracks, shields raised and spells flying. Fire and lightning clashed against stone, and the explosions shook the ground beneath their feet. Leonard charged at the forefront, cutting down any enemy who dared to stand in his way.

The defenders fought with the desperation of men who knew they were doomed. They hurled themselves at the revolutionaries without restraint, abandoning any notions of order once their planned assault had failed. Yet, against Leonard's might and the discipline of his soldiers, they stood little chance.

Leonard cut down those who opposed him while leaving the wounded behind for his men to secure. If they didn't bleed out, they would be given another chance to live a meaningful life.

Within minutes, the barracks were breached. Revolutionaries poured into the building, obliterating any who attempted to resist. The defenders fought valiantly, but the tide was unstoppable.

As Leonard made to step into the shattered remains of the barracks' main hall, the officer who had spoken to him earlier rushed forward, raising his sword in a final, desperate charge.

Leonard met him head-on, parrying the strike and sending the man's weapon clattering to the ground. He stared into the officer's eyes, seeing defiance and despair in equal measure.

"It's over," he said quietly.

The man yelled incoherently, charging at him with wild eyes. Dyeus swung, and his head toppled.

Leonard turned to his men. "Secure the survivors. Treat the wounded. And make sure this place is clear. I want to use it as a forward base until we secure the closest guild building."

The soldiers moved quickly, pulling the broken men away.

Stepping back outside, Leonard let the sounds of the city wash over him. As he expected, the resistance was far less than it should have been. Although the psychological toll of losing the wards would be significant, as evidenced by the men he had just fought, there should have been tens of thousands of soldiers ready to push him out.

That they weren't here meant Pollus was prepared to go all the way.

Leonard would grant him his wish.

Chapter 149 - Fault lies in Who Does - Oliver 15

Oliver sprinted through the chaos of Hassel's outer streets, leaving Leonard's group behind to draw the defenders' attention. His squad advanced in disciplined formation, clearing one street after another while guiding the few civilians who dared to show their faces away from potential flashpoints. Despite their youth, his soldiers had been forged in fire. He trusted them to maintain their composure in the fight, even when the harsh reality of war bared its fangs.

Esmeria kept pace effortlessly at his side, her dark braid whipping around as she scanned the surroundings for any threats. From a side street, Hector joined them.

"Clear!" He called, glaring at the shuttered windows and frightened eyes peeking through the cracks. "You'd think they'd cheer or something."

Oliver raised an eyebrow. "What would you do in their place? They've spent the last few months being told we're monsters. That we'll tear their families apart and burn their homes."

"Pollus's men must have made sure every family believed Leonard himself eats children for breakfast.” Esmeria snorted softly.

Hector scowled but remained silent. The mood among the civilians was palpable. Doors were bolted, curtains drawn, and everyone they encountered looked at them with mistrust. Oliver couldn't blame them, even though the weight of their fearful stares felt uncomfortable. It wasn't their fault, but it still hurt to be seen as something to be feared instead of celebrated.

They'll learn the truth soon enough. They've already been abandoned to their fates, after all.

"Eyes forward," he said finally, deciding not to waste time on it. "We have a job to do."

Esmeria tilted her head toward him, a small smirk playing at the corner of her lips. "Nervous?"

"Focused," he replied curtly. But her teasing smile remained. It had lingered since that morning, which was why he had kept his distance from Lucy. He couldn’t afford to distract his squad with idle gossip.

They wound their way through narrow streets and broad courtyards, facing little opposition despite the city’s labyrinthine planning. It made his teeth itch.

Nonetheless, Oliver kept his squad moving west toward the Air Force staging ground. The Griffin Knights were among Hassel's most elite defenders, and their combination of aerial prowess and combat skills created a formidable obstacle. Leonard's trust in him to handle this mission was an honor. Other corps had been given equally valuable targets, but Oliver was by far the youngest leading his own.

The streets widened into a more open district as they approached their destination. The staging ground loomed ahead, consisting of a sturdy complex of stone buildings and wide training fields. Yet, something felt off.

Oliver raised his fist, signaling the squad to halt. They crouched instinctively, hiding in the shadows of a low wall as Esmeria moved beside him.

"It's too quiet," she murmured, echoing his own unease.

He nodded, suspecting an ambush. The area was supposed to be teeming with life—griffins roaring, knights preparing for sorties—but it was silent. No sounds of flapping wings, no clanging of weapons being readied. The main gates stood ajar, and the eerie silence gnawed at Oliver's instincts. He couldn’t sense any presence within, which only made him warier.

"Be ready for anything," he murmured. "We're going in."

They crept forward, weapons drawn. Oliver and Esmeria each led a squad, cautiously slipping through the open gates. The grounds resembled a ghost town. The stone courtyard stretched out before them, empty except for scattered loose equipment and overturned barrels. The barracks and training halls stood silent, their doors ajar, as if abandoned in haste.

"Where the hell is everyone?" Hector muttered under his breath.

Oliver raised a hand to quiet him. He gestured for Esmeria to take a few men to check the main barracks while he approached the stables. The heavy doors creaked as he pushed them open, and the smell of hay and leather mingled in the air. Rows of stalls stretched into the dim interior, but all were empty. No griffins, no handlers, and barely a stray feather.

"They're gone," Esmeria said as she rejoined him, looking grim. "The barracks are empty, too. It's like they packed up and vanished."

The acrid taste of failure lingered on Oliver's tongue as he slammed his fist into the nearest wall. The impact was jarring but not enough to ease his frustration. The empty stables and vacant barracks—everything about this felt wrong. They were wasting time, chasing empty trails while the Griffin Knights regrouped behind stronger defenses in the citadel.

"Damn it all," he growled, his breath coming in harsh bursts. This was his first official mission, and he had already failed. He wasn't too worried about the added defenses around the citadel—Leonard and Amelia had demonstrated just how little the Griffin Knights could do against the revolution—but capturing the beasts would have expedited the assault.

Now we need to rethink our approach. Even if we manage to breach the citadel, we can't just let the men swarm in. They'd be sitting ducks for the Knights flying above. Additionally, having Amelia and Leonard draw them out would expose the infantry to any trap Pollus sets. Fuck, that must be his plan. The old bastard probably doesn't even care that Hassel will fall; he's trying to make it as painful as possible for us.

Standing a step behind him, Esmeria crossed her arms. She didn't flinch at his outburst. Instead, she met his eyes, willing him to keep calm. "We knew this might happen, Oliver. The Griffin Knights retreating was always a factor. That's why the Grand Marshal sent us here—to confirm it and to deny the field to any remaining force. We've achieved that."

He turned to face her, the tight set of his jaw betraying his barely restrained anger. "And what now? Just sit on our hands while they fortify? Every minute we spend here is another minute they're digging in."

Esmeria stepped closer, lowering her voice so only he could hear. "We finish what we came here to do: a complete sweep of the grounds. If they left something behind—anything at all—we'll find it. And if not, at least we'll know for sure."

Oliver took a deep breath, forcing himself to let the tension drain from his shoulders. She was right. Rushing back to the front lines without completing their mission wouldn't help anyone. His men needed him focused.

Yes, this isn't ideal, but I have to stay calm. I already messed up too badly once. I'm not going to lead my people into another massacre just because I was too angry to see it coming.

"Fine," he said finally, his voice terse. "We'll sweep the area. But let's make it quick. I want us to start setting barricades around the fields as soon as possible."

Esmeria nodded sharply and turned to relay the orders. The two squads were divided into smaller groups to search every building and corner. Oliver kept only Lucy and Hector with him, never releasing the hilt of his sword. The eerie silence of the place gnawed at him, setting his nerves on edge. The absence of enemies felt more oppressive than a battlefield filled with them.

It wasn't long before one of his soldiers returned, deathly pale and hesitant. "Sir," the young man said, saluting sharply. "You'll want to see this. It's at the back of the arming field."

Oliver exchanged a glance with Lucy. The soldier's shaken demeanor told him more than he wanted to know. Steeling himself, he signaled for the soldier to lead the way. They crossed the field in tense silence, the faint smell of iron growing stronger with every step.

At the far edge of the grounds, tucked away behind a crumbling stone wall, they discovered the source of the smell: a squat, long building with heavy wooden doors hanging slightly ajar. The air around it was thick with the unmistakable stench of blood. Oliver's stomach twisted as he moved closer.

"Stay back," he ordered the rest of the squad. Only Hector followed him as he stepped inside.

The dim interior felt suffocating, and the odor overpowering. Oliver's boots squelched on the slick, bloodied floor. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, the horrifying scene before him came into focus.

Bodies. Dozens, maybe over a hundred, were sprawled across the room in macabre disarray. Every one of them bore the same grim mark: a clean, precise slash across the throat. Some of the corpses were still bound in chains, their lifeless eyes staring at nothing. Others had collapsed in heaps as if they'd tried to run but found no escape.

For a moment, Oliver couldn't move. He stood frozen, his heart pounding against his ribs as he took in the full scale of the atrocity. The realization hit him like a blow: these were the servants, the slaves who tended to the Griffin Knights. Too inconvenient to bring along and too dangerous to leave behind, they had been executed without a second thought.

Hector’s sharp intake of breath shattered the silence. "Light above…" he whispered in horror.

Oliver swallowed hard, forcing himself to step further into the room. The metallic tang of blood was overwhelming, but he pushed it aside. He had to take action. He couldn't allow these deaths to be in vain.

"We need to—" His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat. "We need to make them as whole as we can. Get their bodies in order. Sir Leonard might—might be able to…"

That was when Esmeria joined them in, gasping at the sight and gripping the nearby wall to hold herself up. It took her a moment to gather her wits, but she did and knelt beside one of the corpses. She placed a hand on its cold, stiff shoulder, her gaze distant. "They've been dead for hours, Oliver. Their souls may already be beyond reach."

She would know, having been resurrected once.

Her words were practical, not cruel, but they struck him like a knife to the gut. Failure, once again. It was becoming an all-too-common companion, and Oliver wasn't sure he could overcome it this time. He already bore the weight of having led his men to their deaths once, and it was only due to his mentor's intervention that he wasn't left broken by it.

"We could've saved them," he said through gritted teeth. "If we'd been faster, if—"

"Stop." Esmeria's voice cut through his spiraling thoughts like a knife. She rose to her feet and faced him with an unflinching gaze. "This wasn't your fault. Don't carry the blame for what our enemies did."

Oliver locked eyes with her, his breathing heavy. For a moment, he wanted to argue, to rail against the injustice of it all. But he knew she was right. The guilt he felt wasn't productive. These people deserved more than his self-pity.

"We'll do what we can," he said eventually, his voice low. "Gather the bodies and treat them with respect. If Leonard has time, he'll come. And if he doesn't..." His jaw tightened. "We'll honor them in another way."

Esmeria nodded, her expression softening. "We'll set things right, Oliver. One way or another."

Together, they stepped out of the building and issued grim orders to their squad. The soldiers were pale but set about the painstaking task of arranging the bodies. No one spoke. The weight of the moment felt too heavy for words.

As the work progressed, Oliver stood at the edge of the field, his eyes fixed on the distant silhouette of the citadel. The Griffin Knights were in there, along with Pollus and whatever defenses remained. The atrocities committed here were their doing—a final act of cruelty to deny the revolution even the smallest of victories.

Oliver ground his teeth. The blood on his boots and the smell clinging to his clothes—he wouldn't forget them. He wouldn't let it go unanswered.

"I'll make them pay," he vowed. "For every life they took. I'll make them pay."

Chapter 150 - Futile Resistance - Amelia 13

The streets leading to the eastern quarter of Hassel were eerily deserted. The residents had been close enough to the walls that they all ran for cover, and it would take some time before they felt safe enough to emerge. It was a good thing Amelia wasn't here for them.

She moved without haste, her black cloak swirling behind her as a dozen mages trailed in disciplined silence. They had been chosen for their ability to work together among the thousands who now made up the Revolutionary Mage Corps.

Hassel's magic tower rose like a marble shard at the end of the main avenue, piercing the heavens. Its alabaster walls were impossibly smooth, save for the intricate reliefs carved deeply into its surface, depicting the triumphs of Haylese mages from a bygone era. Great rituals were immortalized in sweeping lines; colossal beasts were brought to heel by glyphs of binding, and ancient kings bowed before the power of the arcane. To any other observer, it might have appeared to be a breathtaking monument to knowledge and mastery.

To Amelia, it was a lie.

Her eyes lingered briefly on a relief: a spiraling vortex of runes and chains that supposedly depicted the binding of a primordial wind spirit. Once, she had stood at the tower's base as a hopeful refugee, gazing in awe at that very carving. She recalled feeling humbled and grateful for being granted entry into such hallowed halls. Her talent had been undeniable, praised even by the best instructors. But praise held little importance in a system where bloodlines carried much more weight.

It hadn't taken long for the truth to come to light. Those in the tower’s upper echelons were not paragons of magic, as the reliefs suggested, but rather stewards clinging to their positions through privilege and politics. They were managers, not mages, and their disdain for her common blood was palpable.

"Cowards," Amelia muttered under her breath, shaking off the memories.

“My Lady?" asked Eddric, one of her mages, a wiry man with weathered features and a knack for practical spellcraft. He wasn’t the most powerful of the lot, but all respected him, and that was just as valuable when mages needed to work together.

Amelia turned to face the group, her expression unreadable. "The wards are weaker than expected. Either the Tower Master and his sycophants have fled to the citadel, or they've siphoned off more of the reserves than I anticipated." Her tone was sharp and clipped. "These protections should have been strong enough to withstand a siege for days; yet they're barely holding up without even being tested."

Eddric nodded, and the others murmured their acknowledgment.

I knew they were skimming off the top, but to think they'd have so little left that they couldn't even oppose me. Master Quellon was a real bastard, but at least he knew how to run the place. Julius is a terrible successor.

Though Amelia could have handled these flimsy protections on her own, she had barely recovered from the aerial battle, and there was no need to waste her mana when she had plenty of men to do it for her.

It's why we invested so much effort into building the army. Why not use them now that we have them? I must remember to thank little Jean once we're done here and she has dealt with Duke Garva. Without her, I would have had to spend so much of my time teaching the mages that I wouldn't have been able to keep up with my network.

"Begin preparations for the siege spell!"

At once, her men spread out in a circle, holding their hands out as if giving thanks, and began to chant softly. Fire mana started to coalesce around them in a spell originally crafted by one of the few decent mages they had encountered on their way here.

A fiery glow began to build up over the square, and once it peaked and was visible from all over the neighborhood, the mages unleashed their combined might.

The [Fire Dragon's Breath] roared like a caged beast, surging forward as an incandescent torrent of flame and crashing into the ward.

The tower's protections flared in response, golden and violet energies intertwining in a desperate attempt to hold. The clash of forces sent waves of heat and light across the district, sending vibrations through the air with the sheer weight of the magic being wielded.

Amelia stood at the forefront of her group, arms crossed, watching impassively as the wards began to crack. She didn't particularly enjoy having to sit aside, but she was currently limited.

Usually, she would have invoked her contract with the Elemental King of Darkness to shatter the protections herself. Her shadows could have seeped into the cracks of the warding spells, dismantling their structure from within. However, her contract was currently strained. The battle with the airships had pushed her limits. Every favor came at a cost, and she couldn't afford to increase her debt before settling it.

Spirits were kind of sticklers for rules.

So, brute force it was.

The mages chanted in perfect unison as they poured their mana into sustaining the spell. The flames surged higher, their heat palpable even from where Amelia stood. The stone-paved floor bubbled and melted around the tower, and she made a note to requisition a few earth mages to restore it. The masonry was one of the few local arts worth preserving.

Sweat beaded on the brows of her mages, yet they held firm and continued to pour power into the spell. Finally, with a sound like shattering glass, the wards collapsed in a cascade of crackling sparks, their light fading into the ether. The resulting shockwave was little more than a breeze, again showing how depleted the wards were.

Amelia allowed herself a satisfied smile. "Good work," she said. "Recover your strength. I'll take point from now on."

The mages agreed, slumped in exhaustion. Amelia stepped forward, her boots crunching on the scorched cobblestones as she approached the newly revealed entrance to the tower. The massive bronze doors, engraved with arcane symbols that no longer glowed with protective energy, loomed ahead. With a flick of her wrist, she sent a tendril of power to push them open, ready to defend against any trap or surprise attack.

The doors creaked on their hinges, revealing the tower's atrium. What Amelia saw inside stopped her in her tracks.

The grand hall was far from what she had expected. Instead of the frantic disorder of a last-minute evacuation or the emptiness of abandonment, the space buzzed with people. About a hundred mages of various ages were gathered in the atrium, ranging from defiance to despair. Some were young, no older than teenagers, and surprisingly appeared the most resolute. Others were older, and some she even recognized from her time here.

However, it was the dozen figures at the center of the room that captured Amelia's attention. Bound and gagged, the elderly mages knelt in a neat line, their ornate robes marking them as senior members of the tower's hierarchy. Amelia's sharp gaze swept over them, and a slow, dangerous smile curled her lips as her eyes landed on one figure in particular.

The Tower Master.

He was thinner than she remembered; his once-imposing figure had dwindled with age. Yet, there was no mistaking the sharp lines of his face or the cold arrogance in his eyes. Even now, gagged and powerless, he radiated the haughty disdain that had once infuriated her during her time in the tower.

No one attacked her.

"Well, well," Amelia said, stepping into the atrium. Her voice rang out clearly as she surveyed the scene. "This is unexpected."

The mages in the room shifted uneasily, their gazes flickering between her and the bound elders. No one spoke; the tension was thick enough to choke on. Amelia's smile widened, but it held no warmth.

"I was certain," she continued, lightly but laced with steel, "that I'd find this place abandoned. I thought your esteemed leaders would have fled to the citadel, clutching their precious mana crystals and leaving the rest of you to your fate. Imagine my surprise when I found you all here. And like this." She gestured to the bound elders with a casual wave of her hand.

Her words lingered in the air, unanswered. The younger mages shifted, wearing their discomfort openly. And yet, there was a hint of defiance.

Amelia narrowed her eyes, and her magic flared slightly, sending a ripple of dark energy across the room.

"Speak," she commanded, dropping into a dangerous growl. "One of you had better tell me what's going on, or I'll assume this is some kind of elaborate trap. And I don't take kindly to traps."

A young woman stepped forward hesitantly. She couldn't have been more than twenty and had pale blonde hair tied back in a simple braid. She swallowed hard before speaking, and though her voice trembled, it remained clear.

"They… ordered us to evacuate," the girl said, her gaze flickering at the bound elders. "They said we should retreat to the citadel and leave everything behind. But when we realized what they were planning…" Her voice broke, and she looked away, unable to continue.

Amelia's eyes narrowed. "What were they planning?" she asked, deceptively soft.

Another mage, an older man with a scar running down the length of his throat, stepped forward. "They wanted to empty the vaults and lock the wards behind us so that we would be forced to fight you to the death," he said bluntly. "They claimed it was a necessary sacrifice. But we refused. We overpowered them, secured the vault, and decided to try our luck with you."

There was a ripple of murmurs from the gathered mages. Some nodded in agreement, while others looked away, wearing their fear plainly. She doubted they wanted to gamble with her mercy, but they hadn't been given any chance.

Amelia tilted her head, examining the bound elders with a cold, calculating gaze.

The Tower Master glared up at her, his eyes burning with impotent fury. Even while gagged and restrained, he managed to radiate disdain as if he were still in control. Amelia crouched in front of him, her smile returning as she leaned in close.

"Well," she said softly, her voice dripping with mock sweetness, "I must admit, this is quite the surprise. I expected cowardice, not mutiny. To think that you'd fallen so low that a few apprentices were able to get the best of you… I'm afraid you've only made it worse." Her eyes darkened, and the air around her grew heavy with menace. "You denied me the pleasure of hunting you down myself."

She straightened, her gaze sweeping over the room. "As for the rest of you," she said, addressing the younger mages, "I suppose I should commend you for your courage. Defying your superiors takes guts. But courage alone won't save you."

The mages stiffened, warily waiting for her judgment. Amelia raised a hand, and tendrils of dark energy began to swirl around her fingers.

"You have a choice," she said, as cold and unyielding as winter. "Swear loyalty to the Revolution, to the cause of freedom and justice, and prove your worth to me. Or…” Her gaze flickered to the bound elders, and her smile turned cruel. "You can join your former masters' fate."

The room fell silent.

She half expected some of them to deny her, knowing just how deeply Pollus had managed to spread his poisoned words. But she was a different woman these days, more compassionate, and so Amelia waited, her dark magic crackling faintly in the air. One by one, the younger mages bowed their heads in submission.

"Good," she said. "Then let's get to work. I want the tower to be operational again before sundown. If Pollus wants to play hide and seek, he should be prepared for what happens when he gets caught.”

Chapter 151 - Diggin In - Leonard 50

Hassel was eerily still as Leonard led his men forward. Although his army encountered only sporadic resistance, the silence weighed heavily on his mind. This was not the fierce, desperate defense he had expected to find. If anything, the absence of opposition felt more disconcerting than the bloody battles of past sieges.

Mounted on his massive charger, Leonard surveyed the path ahead. Buildings loomed over the narrow streets, their windows darkened and their doors bolted shut. A handful of soldiers emerged from an alleyway, brandishing spears and shouting defiance, but his men dispatched them with ruthless efficiency. The brief skirmish didn’t even require Leonard to draw his sword. Instead, he continued scanning the surroundings with his senses, waiting for the inevitable trap.

It never came.

“Captain Duval,” Leonard called.

“Yes, Grand Marshal?” The captain rode up beside him, looking perfectly unruffled despite having taken part in the skirmish.

“Double the scouts at the front and send two detachments to secure the flanks. Just because the enemy is reluctant doesn’t mean they are defeated. They are planning something.”

Duval saluted sharply and began issuing orders. Within moments, runners darted off to relay the commands, and Leonard’s column adjusted its formation. He allowed himself a small nod of satisfaction. Precaution was the difference between a commander and a hero too dead to enjoy his legend. That was the first lesson taught to him by his mentor in the Whiteguard, and he wasn’t about to forget it just because victory was so close.

As they rounded a corner, a grand building stood out from the rest of the city’s architecture. The structure was carved with elaborate reliefs depicting warriors and beasts locked in battle. Stained glass windows reflected a rainbow of colors, depicting scenes of heroism and triumph. A large sign above the wide double doors proclaimed it the Hassel Adventurer’s Guild.

It was quite grand for a tavern full of mercenaries, but when a major city sat so close to the untamed wilderness, work was always plentiful.

Leonard’s keen eyes immediately spotted the figure standing at the entrance. A burly dwarf leaned casually against one of the ornate doors, his thick arms crossed over his barrel-like chest. His beard, streaked with gray, hung in twin braids, and a massive warhammer rested at his side. Although his posture might have seemed relaxed to the untrained eye, Leonard recognized the readiness in the dwarf’s stance—a coiled spring waiting for the right moment to strike. This man was a Master, and an experienced one at that.

Leonard raised a hand, signaling his men to stop. The soldiers spread out, encircling the building in a well-practiced maneuver. Archers and gunners climbed to the nearby rooftops, prepared to fire at the first sign of trouble, while the infantry formed a protective perimeter around the area.

Dismounting, Leonard strode toward the dwarf, clinking softly with each step. The air between them hummed with tension as the two warriors sized each other up. Leonard’s expression remained calm, though his fingers brushed the pommel of his sword. The dwarf’s piercing blue eyes glinted with something between challenge and amusement.

After a long pause, the dwarf grunted. “Still tall, still shiny, and still too damn handsome for your own good. Hero of the Light, huh? Took you long enough to get here.”

Leonard allowed himself a faint smile. “And you’re still as grouchy and old as ever, Rusty. It’s good to see you.”

The dwarf’s stern face broke into a grin as he extended a hand. Leonard clasped it firmly, feeling the calluses and scars. Rusty’s grip was as strong as ever.

“It’s been a while,” Rusty said, with just a hint of warmth. “I almost didn’t believe the rumors when I heard you were leading this so-called Revolution. But seeing you here, in the flesh… well, I guess even Heroes need retirement hobbies, aye?”

Leonard chuckled. “I wouldn’t call overthrowing tyranny a hobby.”

Rusty’s grin grew wider. “Fair enough. Now, come on inside. We have things to discuss. Hassel has changed a lot since the last time you were here, and if you want to take the city, you’ll need some information.”

The soldiers tensed at that. Despite the friendly greeting, inviting the leader of the revolution into a closed building that they didn’t fully control felt like an obvious trap. Leonard waved them down. “I know Rusty. He’s not the kind to deal in subterfuge. He’d have already challenged me to a duel if he wanted to fight.”

That didn’t seem to reassure the men much, but it wasn’t like they could oppose his decision.

“Continue the scouting operations. I want constant updates on how the other groups are doing. We’ll resume our march within half an hour,” Leonard added, which seemed to reassure the men.

The soldiers saluted in unison, their discipline impeccable. Satisfied, Leonard followed Rusty into the Guildhall.

The interior was as grand as its exterior, though it bore signs of recent turmoil. Chairs lay overturned, papers were scattered across the floor, and a faint smell of smoke lingered in the air. Despite the chaos, the space exuded a sense of history and purpose. Trophies from past expeditions lined the walls—monster heads, enchanted weapons, and other relics from adventuring days gone by.

The men gathered inside fell into a low murmur as Leonard stepped into the main chamber. About a hundred adventurers stood scattered around, ranging from wary to hopeful. Many were armed, although their weapons were sheathed, and their stances remained neutral. It was a far cry from what an invading enemy might expect.

That, at least, made it unlikely that he had walked into a trap.

Leonard’s gaze swept across the gathered crowd. Although a hundred men and women might seem like a formidable force, he knew better. Hassel had once hosted one of the largest adventurer guilds in the kingdom, boasting over two thousand registered members. While he recognized that the city had faced difficulties in recent years, that wouldn’t explain the sudden drop.

He turned to Rusty, raising an eyebrow. “The last time I was here, Hassel had two thousand adventurers,” he said. “Where are the rest?”

Rusty grimaced, folding his arms across his broad chest. “North,” he said with a snort. “When the fighting got too close for comfort, most of ‘em didn’t want to get caught in the crossfire. They don’t care about your revolution or the king’s lies—they just want to keep their coin pouches heavy and their heads attached.”

Leonard snorted. “So they abandoned the city.”

“They abandoned us,” Rusty corrected bitterly. “The ones you see here? They stayed because they have something more than gold tying ‘em down: family, friends, or just a shred of honor left in their bones. The rest? Cowards.”

Leonard nodded slowly. He hadn’t expected much from the adventurers when he’d first planned this siege, but hearing it spelled out still left a sour taste in his mouth.

Rusty gestured toward a side door near the back of the hall. “Come on. If we’re going to discuss this properly, let’s do it in the Guildmaster’s office. It feels strange enough having you stand here with a reception like a visiting noble.”

Leonard smirked faintly but followed without a word. The two men climbed a short flight of stairs, their boots echoing against the worn wooden planks, and entered the Guildmaster’s office. The room was spacious yet cluttered, with maps, books, and ledgers scattered across the desk and shelves. A heavy chair stood behind the desk, and Rusty wasted no time claiming it. He leaned back with a satisfied sigh, propping his boots up on the desk while grinning at Leonard.

“Now this,” Rusty said, “this feels right. Took me long enough to sit in the big chair.”

Leonard chuckled, shaking his head. “I’ll admit it suits you. Though I didn’t think you’d take to leadership so quickly.”

Rusty barked a laugh. “Don’t get used to it. I’m still a warrior at heart.”

“Good,” Leonard replied, his tone growing serious. “Because as much as I’d love to sit here and reminisce, I don’t have time. The Count won’t wait for me to finish with pleasantries.”

Rusty’s grin disappeared. He leaned forward, his boots striking the floor with a heavy thud. "Alright. Let’s get to work, then.”

The dwarf retrieved a rolled-up map from the cluttered desk and spread it out on the surface. Leonard stepped closer, recognizing the layout of the citadel. Rusty began to point out various sections, tracing the lines of walls, towers, and gates.

“I’ve got eyes and ears in this city,” Rusty said. “Not as sharp as your shadow lady, but good enough. Most of what I know aligns with what I’m guessing you already know. However, there have been changes in the past couple of days that I doubt you’re aware of.”

He tapped a section of the map near the Tower. “This gate? It was reinforced two days ago with Cold Iron. Don’t ask me where they obtained it, but it doesn’t take a genius to guess they want to trap your mages there.”

Leonard frowned but nodded. It was useful information, especially since it implied that Pollus still had open lines of resupply to gather that much Cold Iron. “Noted. What else?”

Rusty’s finger moved to a narrow alleyway leading toward the main entrance. “There’s a choke point here. They’ve been stockpiling alchemical explosives. Enough to turn this entire area into a crater if your forces press through too quickly.”

Leonard’s brow furrowed. “We knew the King had kidnapped some alchemists, but I thought he’d keep them to himself.”

Rusty shrugged. “They’re crafty bastards. Pollus might have been keeping them for himself for all I know.”

The dwarf continued to outline various traps and defenses; some of these Leonard was already familiar with, while others were new and troubling.

“Your insight is invaluable,” Leonard said, stepping back from the map as Rusty finished. “We’ll have to adjust our plans.”

The old dwarf grinned. “Don’t mention it. Well, do mention it when this is all over, and you’re passing out medals.”

Leonard chuckled, but the quickly became serious again. “There’s one more thing I need from you.”

Rusty raised an eyebrow. “Oh? And what’s that?”

“I need your help to keep the population under control,” Leonard said. “The people of Hassel are scared, misled, and likely to resist even after we complete our takeover. They’ll trust your adventurers more than my soldiers, at least for now. I’ll assign a Corp of Security Forces to work with you. I want you to ensure the transition is as smooth as possible.”

Rusty stroked his beard thoughtfully. "It's a tall order, but you have a point. The people here know us. We should be able to prevent any riots from happening, at the very least.”

“Good,” Leonard said firmly. “I’ll have the Corps report to you by nightfall.”

Before Rusty could respond, a sudden, oppressive weight filled the air. Both men turned and darted toward the window. A flicker of red light danced across the room, casting long, ominous shadows.

Leonard pulled the heavy curtains aside and stared out into the city. His breath caught as he saw the sky above the citadel.

It was red—an unnatural, glowing crimson that pulsed like a beating heart. The mana in the air felt thick and suffocating, a palpable force that made even Leonard uneasy.

This wasn’t just raw power. It was a desperate, screaming energy that could only be borne from human sacrifice.

Rusty appeared at his side, his face pale. “What in the bloody depths is that?”

Leonard’s jaw tightened as he stared at the ominous glow. “Damn stubborn old bastard,” he muttered, his voice low. “He really means to keep us from taking the citadel at all costs. Those are blood wards.”

Chapter 152 - When in Doubt, Orc - Leonard 51

Leonard stormed out of the Guild without another word, his cloak billowing behind him. The crimson sky above the citadel burned in his mind like an open wound, even as it gradually faded back to blue. Blood wards—powerful and unstable—were not just a defensive measure; they were a statement of desperation and a threat at the same time. If they detonated, they would take the entire city with them.

His commanders, who had been waiting in the courtyard below, snapped to attention as he emerged. Without pausing, Leonard addressed them. “Gather all the men. We need to move now.”

The urgency in his tone left no room for argument. Messengers dashed in every direction, and the gathered soldiers formed ranks once more. One of his captains rushed to Leonard’s side.

“Does this change our plans, General?” He asked, gesturing toward the general direction of the citadel.

Leonard paused, staring intensely ahead. “It accelerates them. Human lives fuel blood wards. Sacrifices must be made to sustain their strength. Despite that, the resulting backlash could devastate the city if we force our way through. We can’t afford to shatter them carelessly.”

The captain paled. “What’s the plan?”

Leonard talked as he began walking toward his horse. “We must take control of the outer city immediately. The barracks and bases are our priority. If we can secure all the command centers, we’ll be able to fully encircle them. The more options we have, the better it is if we need to mount a strike.”

The captain saluted and dashed off to relay the orders. Leonard mounted his horse, furiously going over their options. The city streets felt suffocating as they marched, but as he extended his senses, he realized that not all was lost. The blood wards were powerful, to be sure, but the initial sacrifice hadn’t been as extensive as it could have been. Pollus likely intended to send a message that he couldn’t be cornered without consequences rather than completely overturn the chessboard. Still, they needed to hasten their progress quickly.

The march toward the central military base in the outer city progressed much faster than their initial one. Apparently having realized the invading army was no longer fooling around, the civilians had cleared the streets. Most had barricaded themselves inside, too frightened to watch the unfolding conflict. The scattered resistance they had encountered earlier seemed to have dissipated, leaving the streets disturbingly empty.

The barracks loomed ahead—a grand marble building with ornate columns and intricate carvings that seemed more fitting for a noble’s estate than a military stronghold. Leonard sneered at the sight. It was a monument to excess, in contrast to the disciplined austerity of his own forces.

“They’re holed up inside,” the captain reported as Leonard dismounted. "There’s been no response to our calls for surrender. From the looks of it, they’re dug in deep.”

Leonard approached the gates, surveying the scene. He could see the glint of rifles in the upper windows and the faint shimmer of defensive spells along the building’s façade. His men were already taking positions, shields raised against possible fire.

“Idiots,” Leonard muttered under his breath. He turned to the captain. “Give them one last chance.”

The captain nodded and raised a horn to his lips, producing a single, sharp note. The sound echoed through the square, yet no response came from the barracks. Moments later, a volley of gunfire erupted from the windows, the bullets ricocheting harmlessly off the front-line shield spells.

Leonard’s jaw tightened. “Enough of this.”

He stepped forward, unbuckling his cloak and letting it fall to the ground. The air around him seemed to shift, growing warmer and brighter. A golden light began to emanate from his armor, a radiant glow that washed over his men and silenced the enemy fire.

He stepped beyond the shields’ protection.

“Grand Marshal, wait!” one of the younger soldiers called, but Leonard raised a hand to silence him.

The first barrage of bullets struck Leonard’s glowing form—and disintegrated upon contact. The light surrounding him intensified, forming a halo of divine energy that defied mortal weapons. With deliberate steps, he advanced toward the gates, disregarding the renewed gunfire and the occasional spell hurled from above.

Behind him, his men watched in awe. The sight of their leader, unwavering in the face of enemy fire, filled them with a fervor that words alone could not inspire. The air around them thrummed with the same radiant energy that enveloped Leonard, emboldening their steps and steadying their hands.

By the time Leonard reached the gates, the defenders inside had stopped firing, their courage faltering. He placed a single, gauntleted hand against the massive iron doors. The golden light around him surged, flowing into the metal.

“Stand back,” he commanded.

His men obeyed, retreating to a safe distance as Leonard’s holy energy concentrated on the gates. With a deafening crack, the iron buckled and shattered, sending shards scattering harmlessly in all directions. A rush of golden light filled the entrance hall, blinding the defenders inside.

“Forward!” Leonard bellowed, raising his sword and stepping into the breach.

His soldiers surged after him, their war cries echoing through the marble halls. The defenders, blinded and disoriented, were quickly overwhelmed. Leonard’s blade danced through the chaos, taking heads with each swing. The radiance around him prevented any enemy from ganging up on him, forcing them to retreat further into the building.

The battle of the barracks began chaotically and continued to evolve in that direction. The defenders, cornered and desperate, fought recklessly as their cries echoed through the grand marble halls. Some wielded steel while others cast spells, but none posed a genuine threat. Leonard mowed through them like a scythe through wheat, not allowing any mortal to halt his advance.

Then, the Void-touched weapons appeared, and the trap was revealed.

It began with a faint, unnatural chill in the air, followed by an acrid, metallic scent that turned Leonard’s stomach. A soldier stepped forward, swinging a blade wreathed in an inky darkness that seemed to devour the light around it. Leonard recognized the taint instantly. He had spent years fighting it, dedicated his new life to it.

The Void.

For a heartbeat, the memory of Belinda’s assassination flashed before his eyes. The poison that had ended her life had borne the same vile energy. His fury ignited, searing away the momentary paralysis.

“You dare bring that filth before me?” He growled, low and dangerous, even as dozens more enemies spilled into the hall, bearing the accursed weapons. His light flared, chasing the shadows back to the corners of the hall. Dyeus howled within his mind, eager to hunt the primordial emptiness once more.

The man wielding the Void-tainted blade lunged at him, a guttural scream escaping his lips. Leonard responded with a single, measured swing of his sword, meeting his challenge. The clash sent a shockwave through the hall as the divine energy of Dyeus collided with the Void.

There was no contest. The Light overwhelmed the darkness, vaporizing the blade—and the man holding it—in an instant. A crescent wave followed his swing, carving through the building’s wall and vanishing into the sky.

The battle froze around him. Soldiers on both sides paused, watching in stunned silence as the man dissipated into nothingness. Leonard turned slowly, his eyes blazing with righteous anger.

“You think this will save you?” he called out, his voice booming through the hall. “You think the Void will save your lives? It will devour you as it devours all. You have chosen death.”

Some of the defenders hesitated, understanding the sentence for what it was. Others, driven by fanaticism or fear, raised their corrupted weapons and charged. Leonard met them head-on, feeling his blood boil.

Each strike of his blade was an act of purification. The Void-tainted weapons disintegrated under his touch, their wielders consumed by the Light’s fury. As more of the kingdom's depravity was cleansed, the atmosphere became choked with the scent of burning corruption. Leonard moved with relentless efficiency, using his anger to fuel his movements.

It took only minutes for the tide to shift. Those who had dared to wield the Void against him lay as ashes upon the marble floor. The remaining defenders—those still clinging to untainted steel or those who had nothing left to fight with—crumbled as they finally understood that resistance was futile. Some dropped their weapons and surrendered at once, pale with terror. Others tried to flee, but Leonard’s soldiers waited outside, and he allowed them to have their own moment of glory, slowly walking outside to keep an eye on things.

The men exhibited a perfect example of grim efficiency. Soldiers stood in tight ranks, rounding up those who fled and cutting down anyone who resisted. The few who surrendered were dragged back into the barracks, where they were forced to kneel under the watchful eyes of Leonard’s men.

Feeling that everything was under control, he stepped back inside as his fury began to fade. The golden aura surrounding him dimmed, retreating beneath his armor as he exhaled slowly. He surveyed the devastation around him—the charred furniture, the gouge in the wall, and the pile of ash where the Void-touched had tried to ambush him.

Pollus planned this, he thought grimly. He wanted to throw me off. To remind me of Belinda, of what I lost. And the bastard almost managed to make me lose control. I have to stop underestimating him. He’s made it clear there is nothing he’ll not do to keep us from taking the city.

For a moment, grief threatened to rise, but Leonard pushed it back. Now was not the time. He turned to his captain, who was directing soldiers to secure the prisoners.

“Ensure the wounded are tended to and the prisoners are interrogated,” Leonard said. “I want to know everything they know about the citadel’s defenses.”

“Yes, sir,” the captain replied, saluting sharply.

Leonard was about to leave the hall when a young soldier approached him. His face flushed from exertion, he saluted awkwardly, clearly nervous in front of the highest authority in the Revolution.

“Grand Marshal,” he stuttered. “There’s a man from the main camp here to see you. He says it’s urgent.”

Leonard arched his brow, extending his senses outward. A familiar presence was nearby, with a crackling energy as unmistakable as the man himself. A faint smile touched his lips.

“Let him in.”

The soldier saluted once more and hurried to the door. Moments later, a figure strode into the hall, his boots clicking against the marble floor. Gareth was a sight to behold. A new armor gleamed with faint arcs of electricity dancing across its surface, while his spear—crafted from ancient, storm-touched wood—rested casually against his shoulder.

“Leonard,” Gareth said, “I am back.”

Leonard inclined his head, feeling the tension in his shoulders ease slightly. “So you are, my friend. Have you just returned from the East?”

“I have fulfilled my duty. Volten is a free city, governed by an honorable council. With me are the warriors who joined our cause, along with a substantial portion of the eastern infantry. Four thousand men have arrived at the main camp, and Captain Longs is currently putting them to good use,” Gareth replied.

Deep shadows lingered beneath his eyes. The campaign had clearly taken a toll on him, but Leonard sensed a fire burning within his friend. Something about him had changed, yet he couldn’t quite identify what it was.

“That’s good news. We’ll need all the men we can get to fortify Hetnia,” he replied, tilting his head in curiosity. “But you wouldn’t have rushed into the city without a good reason. What is it?”

Gareth grinned widely, showing his teeth. “I saw the blood wards go up. I brought you a group of orc shamans.”

Leonard stood in silence for a moment. He hadn’t thought of using the orcs in that way, but of course, their shamans could communicate with spirits. Who else would know how to bypass protections created with them?

“That is very welcome news, my friend. Very welcome indeed.”

And a plan solidified in his mind.

Chapter 153 - Beyond the Lines - Jeremiah 6

The air in the alley was thick, damp, and unnervingly silent. Jeremiah pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders, keeping his eyes peeled for any movement. The stifling quiet felt unnatural, especially in a city bustling with soldiers and charged with the tension of a siege. Every path within the citadel’s walls was heavily patrolled, yet this alley, a narrow passage between towering stone buildings, seemed entirely abandoned. That alone made him wary.

Jeremiah leaned against the wall, feigning a casual demeanor as he scanned the shadows, looking for any trace of the man he was supposed to meet.

He had spent days tracking this contact again, using all his cunning and guile to find someone who could serve as a lifeline to the capital. Now, standing here with no sign of movement, he couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching him.

A soft rustle, no louder than a breeze, broke the stillness. Jeremiah tensed, his hand instinctively brushing against the hilt of the dagger concealed beneath his cloak. Before he could react further, a figure emerged from the shadows, as if the darkness itself had taken shape as a man. It was different from the shades wielded by the Mistress. This darkness was oily, as though it tainted everything around it.

The stranger wore a simple black robe, lacking insignias or decorations—something that only made him more nervous, as the capital’s nobles weren’t known for their modesty—yet his presence radiated an aura of power. A hood partially hid his face, but what little Jeremiah could discern—a strong jaw and a faint smirk—was marked by confidence. More revealing than his appearance was how the air seemed to ripple around him, a subtle distortion hinting at magic beyond the ordinary.

“Adjutant D’antan,” the man greeted smoothly. “You’ve been busy. The only man to ever win against the rebels is a good title.”

Jeremiah forced a smile, but his mind was racing. The contact was more than he had anticipated—far more. The last time he had met the man, he had assessed him as an Expert, but the way the alley seemed to bow to the man’s presence suggested a Master or higher. Someone like that shouldn’t be here, amidst the chaos of the siege.

“I prefer to think of it as being resourceful and willing to do what’s necessary,” Jeremiah replied, keeping his tone light. “After all, desperate times call for desperate measures.”

The man’s smirk widened slightly, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “And desperate you are if you’ve sought me again after ignoring my last offer.”

The statement was both a challenge and a trap. Jeremiah treaded carefully. “Desperation is relative. I’d say I’m motivated—especially now that the Count has raised the Blood Wards.”

The mention of the wards brought a flicker of something to the man’s expression. Interest? Irritation? Jeremiah couldn’t tell, but he pressed on.

“They’re impressive, to say the least,” Jeremiah continued, measuring his words. “A bold move that finally halted the rebel’s advance, though not without risk.”

The man took a slow step closer, his presence looming. “What do you know of the Count’s reasons for deploying them?”

Jeremiah hesitated, not out of uncertainty, but to gauge the man’s intentions. The question wasn’t innocent. The way it was asked, with a deliberate sharpness, made it clear the man wasn’t looking for idle conversation. He was fishing for something specific. And that’s when it clicked.

This mage wasn’t here to help. Oh, Jeremiah didn’t doubt he was part of some shadowy organization within the Kingdom’s ranks, but he wasn’t the one holding the cards anymore. Pollus’ desperate move had surprised more than the rebel leadership. He’d been trapped within the citadel as soon as the Blood Wards went up, and now, like a cornered animal, he was searching for a way out.

Jeremiah suppressed a grimace. If the man had let himself be found in this situation, it was because he wanted to exploit Jeremiah’s connection to Pollus, likely to break free. The realization annoyed him, as it meant this whole chase was a waste of time, but he kept his expression neutral. He was too adept at politics to let his annoyance show.

“Reasons?” Jeremiah repeated, tilting his head as if mulling over the question. “The Count has always been a man of ambition. He was hesitant to hide within the city, but now that he’s been cornered, he will want to go down fighting if the Royal Army cannot get here in time.”

The man didn’t respond immediately, studying Jeremiah with an intensity that made him feel as if his very thoughts were being scrutinized. He still held his ground. He couldn’t show weakness or disinterest—not here, not now.

“But then again,” Jeremiah added, his voice softening conspiratorially, “there are layers to everything, aren’t there? Motives beyond the obvious.”

The mage’s smirk returned, this time laced with something darker. He took another step forward, close enough that Jeremiah could feel the hum of magic radiating off him like heat from a fire. “You speak as though you know something you shouldn’t.”

Jeremiah laughed lightly, though his heart pounded in his chest. “Knowing things I shouldn’t is what keeps me alive.”

The two stood in silence for a moment, the tension between them palpable. Jeremiah’s gambit was almost insultingly simple: make himself appear valuable. If the mage believed he knew more than he let on, he might be spared or at least bought time to plan his next move.

But then, the mage’s expression shifted. The smirk widened, but it wasn’t amusement that filled his gaze—it was grim satisfaction.

Jeremiah’s breath caught. I’ve gone too far.

“I suppose we’ll see,” the man said, almost gentle.

Before Jeremiah could react, a flash of light erupted from the man’s outstretched hand. Pain blossomed, brief but searing, and then everything went dark.

———

Jeremiah woke with a start, gasping for air. His heart hammered in his chest as he sat up, clutching at his ribs where the mage’s attack had struck. To his confusion, there was no wound, no sign of injury—just the faintest tingle of residual magic, like a phantom echo of what had happened.

He looked around, his surroundings slowly coming into focus. He was in his bed, the familiar furnishings of his quarters untouched. The light filtering through the curtains suggested he’d been unconscious for hours, though the exact duration was unclear.

Jeremiah swung his legs over the side of the bed, his thoughts racing. What has he done to me? And why has he left me alive?

He rose unsteadily and crossed to the small table where a pitcher of water sat. After pouring himself a glass, he drank deeply, trying to calm his nerves. As he set the glass down, his gaze caught something—a faint glimmer on the inside of his wrist.

Lifting his arm, he saw it: a sigil, intricately etched into his skin with shimmering lines of magic. He didn’t recognize the symbol, but its presence sent a jolt of unease through him.

What have I gotten myself into?

The Count’s war room was a grand chamber of dark oak and polished marble, its walls adorned with maps, banners, and the mounted heads of beasts taken from long ago's hunts. Around the long table sat a collection of nobles, their silk-clad forms stiff with worry and frustration. At the head of the table, Count Pollus himself loomed, scanning the faces of his council like a hunting hound sniffing for weakness.

Jeremiah entered quietly, the sigil on his wrist concealed beneath the sleeve of his doublet. His mind buzzed with questions about what had occurred in the alley, but he pushed them aside with surprising ease. This was no place for distractions.

The Count gestured for him to take a seat, his expression inscrutable. Jeremiah complied and sank into a chair near the end of the table as the nobles' murmurs grew louder.

“They have resources we didn’t anticipate,” one of the lords said, his voice tight with disbelief. “Their artillery runs have gone on far longer than any reasonable estimate. Where are they pulling this many crystals from?”

“Perhaps they’re throwing everything they have,” another suggested, his tone less certain. “A final gamble. Once their supplies are spent, the main army from the capital will sweep them away.”

“Foolishness,” snapped Lady Varnet, a tall woman with icy blue eyes. Jeremiah hadn’t seen much of her during the campaign, but now that Hassel was about to fall, she couldn’t content herself with her “farms” anymore. “You think Weiss doesn’t know the risks of overextending himself? He’s proven himself far more cunning than that. No, this isn’t desperation. It’s the endpoint of a calculated strategy.”

The room descended into a tense silence, broken only by the distant rumble of battles beyond the citadel walls. Jeremiah’s gaze darted to the Count, who sat motionless, fingers steepled beneath his chin. His eyes, however, burned with intensity.

“It’s not just a last-ditch effort,” Pollus said finally, his voice low and measured. “It’s logistics. Weiss is not depleting his resources; he’s acquiring new ones. The question is not whether he’s desperate—it’s where he’s drawing his strength from and how can we damage it enough to slow him down.”

The nobles exchanged anxious glances, shrinking under the Count’s words. Jeremiah shifted in his seat, tugging at his sleeves. It was very warm today.

“You believe he’s found allies,” Jeremiah said uncharacteristically, breaking the silence. “That he’s receiving outside support.”

Pollus nodded slowly, locking onto Jeremiah with a raised brow. “Precisely. And I suspect I know who.”

“The Brander Republic,” Lady Varnet murmured, “it must be them.”

Pollus’s lips curled into a thin smile. “Exactly. Brander has every reason to see Haylich descend into chaos. A fractured kingdom keeps us from interfering with their trade routes or their skirmishes with the barbarians. If Weiss succeeds here, they gain a fractured Haylich. If he fails, they lose nothing but some coin and a few trainers.”

“But would they risk open involvement?” another lord asked, his brow furrowed. “Surely even Brander wouldn’t be so bold as to antagonize us so brazenly. There are forces within the kingdom that won’t care about civil war, but they won’t ignore an external attack.”

“They don’t need open involvement,” Jeremiah interjected, surprising himself with his boldness. “Their industry is vast, and their networks are subtle. Supplies can move through intermediaries, arms can be stamped with false marks, and funds can vanish into the shadows. If Weiss has secured even a fraction of their logistics for himself, it could explain the strength of his campaign.”

Pollus leaned back in his chair, regarding Jeremiah with an approving nod. “Precisely. This is no mere rebellion. It’s a calculated effort backed by forces that wish to see Haylich crippled.”

The room fell into another heavy silence as the nobles absorbed the implications. For all their wealth and status, they were unprepared for a conflict of this scale. Their arrogance had blinded them to the possibility that Leonard’s rebellion was more than just a domestic insurrection borne of personal grievances.

“What do you propose we do, my lord?” Lady Varnet asked, breaking the silence. “If Brander is truly involved, we simply don’t have the resources to deal with them.”

Pollus’s eyes narrowed. “We must consolidate our forces within the citadel and keep the Blood Wards active, no matter the cost. They are our greatest advantage, and as long as they hold, Weiss cannot take the city.”

“And if the wards fail?” Jeremiah asked.

Pollus’s gaze snapped to him, sharp and unyielding. “Then we ensure that they gain nothing from their victory. If this citadel falls, it will fall in ruins.”

“Then we must ensure they don’t fail,” Jeremiah said resolutely. “Whatever it takes.”

Pollus’s gaze lingered on him for a moment, and Jeremiah felt the weight of the Count’s scrutiny. Finally, Pollus nodded.

“Agreed,” the Count said. “Jeremiah, you will oversee the coordination of our internal defenses. Ensure that every soldier, every mage, and every resource is deployed efficiently. There’s no room for error.” It was a significant advancement in his official role—enough that it would have caused an uproar during regular operations. But under siege, no one dared to complain. After all, they would all die if the role was given to someone incompetent, and even these nobles had a sense of self-preservation left.

Jeremiah inclined his head. “As you command, my lord.”

The meeting continued, with the nobles debating strategies and contingencies while Pollus guided the discussion with calculated precision. Jeremiah remained silent, observing and absorbing the nuances of the conversation. His role here was not to lead but to listen, learn, and position himself as an indispensable asset.

When the meeting finally adjourned, Jeremiah rose with the rest of the council, but Pollus caught his arm, stopping him in his tracks. “A word, Jeremiah.”

Jeremiah nodded, allowing the Count to lead him to a quieter corner of the room.

“I like your initiative,” Pollus said. “Most of the fools at this table are too scared to do anything. That’s why I trust you with this task. Do not fail me.”

Jeremiah met the Count’s gaze, his own steady. “I won’t, my lord.”

“We just need time, boy. Whether from the north or the south, our allies will punish these rebels.”

Chapter 154 - Lay in Wait - Gareth 8

The night breeze tousled Gareth's hair as he stood before the eastern Arsenal, with his boots firmly planted in the dirt that had turned to mud from his men's relentless advance. The distant glow of the blood wards cast an eerie red hue over the city, reminiscent of the embers of a dying fire that refused to extinguish. Lady Amelia’s mages were currently testing them—not to destroy them, as the backlash was too dangerous to risk, but to study them. Gareth’s jaw tightened as he observed the citadel rise in the distance, its jagged silhouette outlined by the infernal light.

The orders from Leonard had been clear: encircle the citadel and apply pressure from all sides. The remaining Loyalists had spread themselves too thin to repel a full assault, and it was up to Gareth to ensure they couldn’t regroup. But clarity in orders didn’t mean simplicity in execution. The Loyalists fought like animals backed into a corner—desperate, ruthless, and without regard for their own lives.

The propaganda Pollus had spread among the troops made it seem like surrendering would mean rape and torture. No one would go quietly if they thought that fate awaited them.

“General, the defenses are holding,” a soldier reported, weary but steady—that was something he had yet to get used to. Leonard’s men, when in his vicinity, never faltered, no matter how ugly the fighting got. “Our forces are scaling the sides, but the Loyalists have barricaded the upper levels. It’s slow going.”

Gareth nodded. “Keep the pressure constant. They will weaken, and I want us ready to exploit it.”

The soldier saluted and disappeared into the chaos, leaving Gareth alone to survey the battlefield. He adjusted the grip on his spear, finding the familiar weight to be a comforting anchor in the madness around him. Hassel had nothing on the hellscape that was Volten, and yet his instincts screamed that he shouldn’t lower his guard, that things were not as easy as they seemed.

But the wards could not hold forever. Nothing powered by human lives was infinite, and Gareth knew Leonard was counting on that inevitability. What concerned him more was the cost of waiting them out. The fighting at the bases outside the wards had already turned into a bloodbath, with losses mounting on both sides. Gareth didn’t need to be told that every soldier lost now would weaken their final push against the citadel.

He’ll have to resurrect the men in mass, but I don’t know how often he can do that. Something tells me overturning the natural order doesn’t come without cost.

“Signal the second wave,” he ordered once he was satisfied with his general assessment. A runner darted off, and moments later, a horn’s low, mournful note echoed through the streets. Fresh troops surged forward. Gareth turned his attention to the buildings that loomed next to the blood wards, where another battle raged.

The Revolutionary forces had managed to spill into some of the structures, and he could see their banners fluttering defiantly above the battlements. But progress through the labyrinthine interiors was agonizingly slow. The Loyalists fought for every corridor, every stairwell, turning even the most innocuous of spaces into killing fields. It was a slaughter, the floors slick with blood and littered with the broken remains of soldiers who had dared to advance too quickly.

“Hold your positions!” a voice roared from a rooftop above, where a Revolutionary officer directed fire onto the streets below. Bullets and spells rained down on the Loyalists, who scrambled to regroup.

Gareth watched the scene unfold with a detached intensity, cataloging the ebb and flow of the battle. He had done his part, ensuring their foothold was secure, and he had to preserve his strength for when it was needed.

Twelve more men died than would have if he had taken the field. It was a minor sacrifice, but it still pained him.

When the base was finally cleared of Loyalist forces, Gareth made sure to walk around the ranks, showing that he hadn’t abandoned them and granting the men a second wind. It wasn’t necessary, given that they were still under Leonard’s buff, but it made him feel better.

“General,” a young officer approached, saluting crisply. “The southern attack reports success. They’ve secured the bases and are fortifying positions around the citadel.”

Gareth straightened. “Good. But if there are pockets left, they’ll need more than walls to keep them safe. Make sure they double the guard rotation. I’ll leave to update the Grand Marshal on our progress.”

The officer nodded and hurried away, leaving Gareth alone once again. He took one final glance at the glowing wards before turning and striding back toward the southern command post.

Leonard stood at the center of the southern encampment, his armor gleaming in the firelight. Deep in conversation with a group of officers—while the rest of the war council pored over a map behind them—he radiated a sense of determination that seemed to steady the nerves of everyone around him. When he arrived, Leonard turned and nodded in approval.

“Gareth,” Leonard said warmly. “Your timing is impeccable. I trust the eastern flank is secure?”

Gareth nodded. “The Loyalists won’t be regrouping anytime soon. We’ve taken the bases and pushed them back into the citadel. But…” He hesitated, his brow furrowing.

Leonard’s gaze sharpened. “But?”

“The blood wards,” Gareth continued. “Seem to be holding well under the tests, and they will for some time. Even if the mages manage to somehow drain them without causing a cascade, the cost of waiting them out will be too high. We’re losing men with every engagement, and the citadel is still untouchable.”

Leonard’s expression darkened, and he nodded as if that confirmed something. “I know. But there’s no other option. We can’t risk breaking the wards by force—it would destroy the city. And the shamans can’t get close enough with so many soldiers still left to fight.”

“Then we need another option,” Gareth said, infusing his words with the necessary gravitas to capture everyone’s attention. “I propose we ask for a parlay.”

The officers fell silent. Leonard himself stared at Gareth with an unreadable expression.

“You want to negotiate?” Leonard asked, incredulous.

“Not negotiate,” Gareth clarified. “We won’t make concessions to Pollus. However, we need to force him to reveal his hand. A parlay might give us the chance to assess his position, his resources, and, most importantly, his state of mind. We need to understand what we’re dealing with.”

Opposite Gareth, Oliver stood with his arms crossed, flushed red with frustration. “This is madness,” he growled. “You’re suggesting we give Pollus time. Time to regroup, to strengthen those damned wards, to plan his next move. You know he won’t surrender. Anything less than a complete and relentless assault will just play into his hands!”

Gareth didn’t show any unease, meeting Oliver’s glare without flinching. It’d be a cold day in hell before a wet-behind-the-ears teenager could intimidate him, no matter how talented. “I know Pollus better than most. I served with him at the Death Pass,” he replied, keeping his tone measured. “He’s arrogant, yes, and unlikely to surrender outright. But I don’t expect him to hand over the citadel on a silver platter. This is about understanding the blood wards. I’m guessing that the tests revealed what we already knew—that they will hold against anything but a full-on attack from our strongest elites, which would obliterate the city. We need another path forward.”

Oliver scoffed, slamming a hand down on the edge of the table. “We already know enough about those monstrosities. They’re powered by human lives—innocents Pollus has sacrificed to keep himself safe. What more is there to know?”

“The how,” Gareth shot back, his voice rising slightly. “We need to know how they function in detail. How they’re maintained, how they’re manipulated. The orc shamans are confident they can purify the damaged spirits trapped within the wards, but the protections around them are still formidable. Seeing the wards being opened and closed—even briefly—could give them the insight they need to bring them down more quickly.”

“Or it could give Pollus a chance to trap us,” Oliver retorted. “You’re playing with fire.”

“And fire is what we need,” Gareth countered. “We’re running out of time. Fighting our way through the citadel isn’t an option. Every delay Pollus can enforce strengthens his position and brings the Royal Army closer to us. We need to act decisively, yes, but we must also act intelligently.”

Amelia leaned forward, narrowing her purple eyes as she studied him. “You’re suggesting we use the parlay as reconnaissance,” she probed. “To gather information under the guise of diplomacy.” Everyone knew she wasn’t a stranger to such methods, but seeing it proposed by a Knight of the Realm was still unusual—at least from one who took their oaths seriously.

Gareth nodded. “Exactly. Pollus won’t trust us any more than we trust him. He’s arrogant, but he’s not a fool. He’ll see this as an opportunity to stall us—but we’ll use that same opportunity to learn.”

Leonard, who had been listening in silence, finally spoke. “And what if Pollus doesn’t take the bait? What if he refuses the parlay, or worse, uses it to launch a counterstrike while we focus our forces?”

“Then we’ll be no worse off than we are now,” Gareth replied. “If he refuses, it proves he’s afraid we’ll uncover something, and it was the right path. If he strikes, he exposes himself to retaliation while his forces are still boxed in. Either way, we gain something.”

The room fell into a tense silence. Leonard’s gaze drifted to the map, tapping his fingers lightly against the hilt of his sword. Finally, he looked up with resolve in his eyes. “You have my support, Gareth. But this has to be done well. One misstep and Pollus will make us pay.”

Amelia nodded, albeit reluctantly. “Agreed. I don’t like the risk, but the potential gain outweighs it. The blood wards are just that dangerous.”

Neer grunted her assent, and David, ever the pragmatist, shrugged. “It’s worth a shot.”

Oliver’s jaw tightened, his eyes burning with barely contained anger, but he gave a sharp nod. “Fine. But if this blows up in our faces, I’ll make sure everyone knows who suggested it.”

Gareth inclined his head. “Noted.”

The ride to the citadel’s main gate was uneventful yet filled with anticipation. Gareth sat tall in the saddle, with his cloak billowing behind him, leading a small delegation of riders to the edge of the blood wards. The air grew heavier as they approached, and the oppressive weight of the sacrificial protections pressed upon their senses. The wards shimmered faintly, pulsing their crimson light like a heartbeat. They were slowly fading from sight now that the probing strikes had ceased, but it would take some time for them to disappear, and Gareth would get to enjoy the bloody show in the meantime.

“Hold here,” Gareth commanded, raising a hand. The riders behind him reined in their horses, forming a defensive semicircle. He dismounted, leaving his spear strapped to his back as he approached the wards alone. The flickering light cast sharp shadows, illuminating his features in stark relief and revealing even sharper cheekbones than during his lowest moment before the revolution.

He halted a few paces from the barrier, his voice resonating with authority. “To those inside the citadel: I bring an offer of parley. Two hours from now, we will await your response. If you have the courage to meet, we will guarantee safe passage for your delegation. If not, then let it be known that the choice to die was yours.”

For a long moment, there was only silence. Then, faintly, a figure appeared on the ramparts. Gareth couldn’t make out the features, but he could feel their appraising gaze. His hand itched to reach for his spear, but he held his ground.

The figure remained silent. Instead, he nodded, acknowledging Gareth’s words. He looked for any sign of movement, any indication that an attack was imminent. But none came.

Satisfied, Gareth turned on his heel and mounted his horse with practiced ease. “We’ll return to the southern command,” he said to his riders. “In two hours, if they don’t arrive, we continue as planned.”

Chapter 155 - Stand off - Gareth 9

The square had become a hub of activity, with soldiers and officers moving to secure the area for the potential parley. Though the revolutionaries were disciplined, the undercurrent of anticipation was palpable.

He dismounted and quickly began issuing orders. “Clear a zone three hundred feet from the gatehouse,” he instructed a group of soldiers. “We’ll establish the meeting site there—no barricades, no weapons within the perimeter. A table and two chairs, nothing more.” We can’t risk spooking the fish if we want it to bite.

The soldiers got to it, and within minutes, a small team was carrying a sturdy table and chairs to the designated area. Gareth ensured that the positioning allowed clear sightlines for his archers and mages stationed further back. He didn’t trust Pollus not to turn this into an ambush, blood wards or not, and he felt that the old Count would be even less likely to come to speak if he couldn’t see any hint of preparation for his arrival.

He might even take it as an insult. He’s someone used to dealing with the barbarian tribes of the Wastes.

As the soldiers worked, Gareth paced the perimeter, inspecting the arrangements. “Everyone else, hold back at least one hundred more feet,” he barked. “If anything seems off, I want to know immediately. No one makes a move unless ordered.”

His men complied, not daring to step out of line with the stakes this high. It would only take a foolish soldier who thought they could kill the Count a second to mess up the whole operation.

It wasn’t long before the table was in place, and the area around it was cleared of debris. The simplicity of the setup seemed almost surreal against the backdrop of the battered city and the ominous glow of the blood wards.

Leonard arrived a few minutes before the agreed-upon time, immediately commanding the attention of everyone nearby.

“We have not seen any movement from within the citadel, but I’m sure they received the message. I still think they will come.” Gareth reported.

Leonard nodded in approval, inscrutable, and gazed toward the citadel gates in the distance.

“They’ll come,” he agreed.

“The orcs are in position too. They should be able to commune with the trapped spirits, but the longer we can get them, the better it is.”

Leonard’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I will try to keep the Count talking, but if I drag it out, he’ll understand.”

Of course, Pollus already knew it was a trap of some kind. Even Leonard’s stellar reputation as a paladin couldn’t make him believe they were asking for a parlay out of the goodness of their heart. But as long as he didn’t know what the trap was, they were good.

They stood in silence as the tension grew with each passing minute. Leonard’s calm exterior concealed the storm brewing within, but Gareth had known him long enough to recognize the subtle signs: the measured breathing, the slight clench of his jaw. Even a powerhouse like him could still feel tense. It was reassuring, in a way. His friend was still human if he could be affected by such high stakes.

Sometimes, he seems too perfect.

The two-hour mark came and went, and the gates of the citadel remained resolutely closed. Whispers began to ripple through the ranks behind them as soldiers speculated on whether the Loyalists had decided to ignore the offer. Leonard didn’t move, patiently waiting. Gareth appreciated the show of confidence in his plan.

And then, at last, the gates creaked open.

The sound echoed across the open space, drawing the attention of every soldier in the vicinity. All movement ceased as two figures emerged from the citadel. At the forefront stood Count Pollus himself, radiating a cold, unyielding power. His hard gray eyes scanned the area with a predator’s precision, and his sallow skin only enhanced his grim, dangerous presence. This was someone who had not hesitated to send thousands of his men to their deaths, and he would do so again and again if he felt the need.

Beside him stood a younger man whom Gareth recognized: Jeremiah D’ansan, the adjutant whose cunning was praised even among revolutionaries. He was the one who had defeated the newly knighted Sir Oliver using only his wits.

The two walked with confidence in a calculated display. The blood wards before them flared to life as they approached, flooding the world with a crimson glow. The light pulsed like a heartbeat, and an oppressive energy weighed upon the revolutionaries’ senses. A crack formed within the wards, opening just wide enough for the two men to pass through before sealing shut again.

I’d try to strike them down if I were a more foolish man. But Pollus hasn’t reached his current position without being a monster in his own right, and Leonard was clear that we need to establish a new nation with rules and honor. Killing an enemy during a parley would make a mockery of that.

Gareth turned to Leonard, who had yet to move. “Pollus has brought another man,” he murmured. “Do you want me to join you?”

Leonard glanced at him, assessing the situation in a heartbeat. “Yes,” he said. “We’ll approach together.” For a brief moment, he seemed to stare in the distance, but with a sigh, he shook whatever it was off.

As they stepped forward, Gareth could feel the eyes of both armies on them—and the innumerable amount of guns and spells ready to fly should anything at all go wrong.

The Count and his adjutant stopped on the opposite side of the table as the crack in the wards sealed behind them. For a moment, the four men simply stood there. Then, the two leaders sat.

Gareth took his position beside Leonard with his spear slung across his back. Opposite him, Jeremiah mirrored his stance, though his posture was more relaxed, almost casual. However, Gareth didn’t miss the sharpness in the adjutant’s dark eyes—a coiled readiness that reminded him of a predator waiting to strike.

Leonard broke the silence, being the commander of the besieging army. Sometimes, it was useful to have such rigidly coded rules of war. A power play here to see who would break first would have been counterproductive. “Count Pollus. It is good to finally see you again.”

The dig at his absence on the field wasn’t particularly subtle, but then again, it didn’t need to be.

Pollus inclined his head, betraying neither warmth nor hostility. “Weiss. I see you’re as rude as ever.”

Gareth knew that this would be more than an exchange of barbs—it was a clash of wills, a test of strength veiled in diplomacy.

After the first probe, the two generals regarded each other in silence. Neither rushed to speak again, as if each was measuring the other. Even as a Master, Gareth couldn’t perceive all the subtle flickers of power they exchanged, but he was aware enough to know they were communicating in that strange manner Champions and above did.

Finally, Pollus followed decorum. “I must admit, I didn’t expect you to resort to diplomacy, considering your… recent successes.”

Ah, so he’s not completely removed from reality. Some men thought he must have gone to seed to continue fighting until now, but this makes it obvious he’s fully aware of his position.

Leonard smiled faintly. “I’d say the same about you. But even seasoned warriors understand that words can accomplish what swords cannot.”

Gareth watched as Pollus’s thin lips curled into a semblance of a smile, though his eyes remained icy. “A pragmatic sentiment,” Pollus commented. “However, I suspect our definitions of success differ."

Leonard leaned back slightly, relaxed yet radiating authority. “I’ve come with an offer,” he said, his voice measured. “I’ll allow you, your nobles, and soldiers to leave the city for Nassay. It’s close enough that you’d be safe within hours. However, you can only take what you can carry in your hands. The rest must remain behind.”

Gareth noticed that Pollus’s expression barely changed, except for the slightest tightening around his eyes. The Count leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table and clasping his hands. “A generous offer, at least on the surface,” he said. “But surely you know it’s not that simple. You stand on the brink of victory if you can get into the citadel, yes, but you must understand what comes next.”

Leonard’s gaze didn’t waver. “What follows is the liberation of this city and its people.”

Pollus let out a quiet chuckle, though it lacked real humor. “Liberation? Is that what you tell your men? Perhaps you’re more idealistic than I thought. But let me speak plainly, Weiss. You may win here, but it will cost you. The kind of bloody victory you’ll endure will leave you vulnerable. The Kingdom’s armies won’t stand this rebellion for long, and when they arrive, weakened as you will be, you won’t be able to hold Hetnia for a month, let alone a year.”

Leonard’s voice remained unchanged. It wasn’t an issue they didn’t understand or were not actively trying to resolve. “And yet, I see no reason to believe you can stop me from taking this city.”

Pollus inclined his head slightly as if conceding the point. “Perhaps not. But I can offer you something more valuable than this city—stability. Allow my men and the nobles to leave with their full possessions, and I’ll ensure no further resistance from this region. The Kingdom has enough problems without seeking vengeance for a rebellion that costs them nothing more than a poor region.”

That’s surprising. I thought the old man would be more stubborn. But maybe he’s only saying it because he knows it’s not something we can accept. Refusing would certainly make it look like we are determined to stamp them out in front of his men, but Leonard won’t allow the slaves to go.

The faint smile on Leonard’s lips vanished. “You mean to include the slaves in those ‘possessions.’”

Pollus didn’t deny it. “They are the cornerstone of our economy. Without them, the nobles have no reason to honor any agreement we make here. This is the reality of our world, Weiss. You may not like it, but ignoring it will be your undoing.”

Gareth felt a sharp spike of tension in the air, the kind that set his hand twitching toward his weapon. He glanced at Leonard, whose face had hardened like granite. He was furious.

Leonard leaned forward, staring down the Master of the Death Pass. “That’s not something I will ever compromise on. The people you call property will no longer suffer under chains while I have the power to stop it.”

Pollus’s gaze turned sharp, and a faint sneer curled his lips. “Then you’ve already lost. You’ll take this city in time, yes, but at what cost? Your army will bleed for it, your resources will dwindle, and when the Kingdom’s forces arrive, they will crush what remains of your so-called revolution. And those you claim to have liberated? They will pay the price for your failure.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Gareth resisted the urge to speak, to shout at this frigid old man who saw lives as little more than pieces on a board. This wasn’t his moment.

Leonard rose slowly from his chair. “You’re wrong, Pollus,” he said, his voice cold as steel. “The cost of victory is always high, but I’ve accepted that. I’ll take this city, blood wards and all. And when I do, it will be with the certainty that I fought for something worth dying for, unlike you.”

Pollus stood as well, his expression unreadable. “Then I suppose we’ve reached an impasse.”

“So it seems,” Leonard replied dismissively. “We’re done here.”

Gareth nodded, stepping back as Leonard walked past him. He cast a final glance at Jeremiah, who watched him with a weirdly blank expression. The tension lingered as the two enemies turned and walked back toward the citadel, the blood wards parting once more to let them through.

The crimson glow faded as the gates closed, leaving the plaza in muted silence.

I hope the orcs got what they needed because we’re not getting them out again.

Chapter 156 - Holy Fervor - Gareth 10

Gareth stood at the center of the war room, armored for battle. Hopefully, he wouldn’t need to fight, but it was always a good idea to show you were willing to when speaking with orcs. Especially with old ones. Unlike most other species, they just got more and more willing to handle problems by bashing heads and splitting skulls.

Before him sat Elder Wei and three other Orcs, who might have passed for revered shamans if Gareth hadn’t seen them punch through zombie torsos during the battle for Volten.

Elder Wei leaned on a gnarled staff, whose wood was twisted and polished from decades of use. Her sharp eyes bore into Gareth's as he addressed her.

“You had the time and the proximity you requested, Elder Wei. Have you learned enough about the wards to bring them down?” Gareth’s tone remained steady, but an urgency simmered just beneath the surface. They were on the clock now that Pollus had refused the only possible deal. The longer it took to take the blood wards down, the less time they’d have to reorganize and prepare for the Royal Army.

The Elder snorted. “Learned? Yes, we saw what those twisted little mages did. Enough? That depends on whether you have the stomach for what it’ll take.”

Her bluntness was a hallmark of her character, and Gareth had come to respect it during their brief time working together. He gestured for her to continue.

Wei tapped her staff on the floor, a habit she knew allowed her to always be ready to cast. “The wards are as we anticipated, boy. They’re constructed from blood—hundreds of sacrifices, likely slaves kept within the citadel itself. Their spirits are bound to the framework of the spell, and they’re raging against their bonds. They’re vengeful, and that works to our advantage.”

Another shaman, a broad-shouldered orc with intricate tattoos running down his arms, interjected. “The spirits can be redirected. They want freedom, and if we guide them properly, they’ll tear the wards apart from within.”

Gareth folded his arms, furrowing his brow. “So what’s the problem?”

Wei’s gaze intensified. “The framework, lad. The wards are anchored by runic spells woven so tightly that even the spirits’ rage cannot breach them without assistance. Breaking that framework requires immense power—far more than the four of us can summon, even when working together. With the dragon line silent, we have no chance of affecting them.”

The room fell silent for a moment. Gareth’s mind raced as he considered the implications. Cutting off the leyline had been necessary, as destroying the century-old wards surrounding Hassel’s walls would have been impossible with it active, but now it was coming back to bite them in the ass.

“How much power are we talking about?” he asked.

Wei leaned forward, baring her teeth. She enjoyed trying to make him flinch, though she had yet to manage. “Enough to rival a cataclysm. The kind of power that reshapes the land and leaves scars that don’t heal.”

Gareth’s jaw tightened. He had seen the aftermath of such forces before. Towns had been turned into craters, and entire fields burned to ash. Only two individuals among the revolution’s ranks possessed that power, and one of them was still recovering.

“We don’t have the luxury of time,” Gareth said firmly. “The blood wards cannot be sustained indefinitely, but we both know Pollus will unleash everything he has against us before they fail. We have to bring them down as fast as possible. You’ll only have one chance.”

Wei nodded slowly. “Then you need to find the power, boy. We’ll start the preparations, but unless you deliver what’s needed, this plan ends before it begins.”

The other shamans shared knowing glances. It was evident they trusted Wei’s leadership, but the enormity of the task ahead loomed large. They were tasked with casting a Champion-tier animistic spell—not something that could be done in a hurry. With Wei being the only Master among them, they’d rely almost entirely on the power source to cast.

“I’ll find it,” Gareth promised. There was no other choice. “Begin your work. I’ll ensure you have what you need.”

Wei grunted, a sound that could have been approval, and rose from her seat. The other shamans followed her lead, gathering their tools and muttering as they prepared to depart.

As they approached the door, Gareth called, “Elder Wei.”

She paused, turning to face him. “What?”

“Thank you,” Gareth said. “For everything. For being here.”

Wei’s lips twitched in what might have been a faint smile. “Save your thanks for when the wards are down, and the citadel is ours. Until then, focus on delivering what you promised. I want to wet my fangs with noble blood before the day’s over.”

With that, she and the other shamans left, leaving Gareth alone in the war room. He stared at the map spread across the table, his eyes tracing the lines of the city and its defenses.

Power. He needed power.

His mind raced through the possibilities. The mages in Leonard’s army were skilled, but their strength was already stretched thin maintaining defenses in case another Air Force Corp appeared from the North and coordinating the assault. The revolution’s supplies of mana crystals were limited with how much was expended to power the airship, and the kind of raw energy the shamans needed wasn’t something that could be conjured out of thin air.

Asking Leonard is always an option, but his power may be too overwhelming for this. I don't doubt his control, but the Shamans are likely to be overwhelmed if he’s the one supplying the mana…

Still, there was one source he hadn’t considered. It was dangerous, volatile, unpredictable, and he wasn’t even sure it would work, but it might be their only chance.

Gareth straightened, his decision made. He left the war room, making his way to Leonard’s quarters. If his plan was going to work, he’d need the Grand Marshal’s approval—after all, he didn’t want to ruin a plan that might already be in the works.

The stakes had never been higher, but Gareth wasn’t about to let the opportunity slip away. The blood wards would fall, one way or another.

Leonard positioned himself at the head of the table, his imposing figure silhouetted against the canvas walls. Amelia leaned against a nearby support beam with her arms crossed. David and Oliver sat on opposite sides of the table, tired from the difficult siege.

Gareth entered with quick strides. He saluted Leonard briefly before taking his place among the group.

“The shamans have their answer,” he announced. “The blood wards can be brought down. They believe the spirits trapped within them can be redirected, but they need an immense source of power to break the wards’ framework.”

Leonard nodded slowly, his gaze sharp. “Good. That was worth the risk, then.”

Gareth frowned. “What risk? I thought the parlay was to buy us time to learn more.”

Amelia let out a low chuckle, shaking her head. “You really didn’t see it, did you?”

“See what?” Gareth asked, his confusion deepening.

Leonard interjected before she could get started. “The blood wards, Gareth, don’t just keep us out. They also keep those inside trapped. When the wards flared open for the parlay, a powerful mage—Champion tier, no less—used the opportunity to escape.”

Gareth blinked, stunned. “You’re certain of this?”

Amelia rolled her eyes. “Champion mages don’t exactly sneak out unnoticed. He vanished in a flashy way. The annoying bastard basically gave us the finger.”

“We had no chance to react. His escape was instantaneous. The moment the wards opened, he was gone.” David explained.

Gareth turned back to Leonard, his voice urgent. “And we’re just… letting this mage roam free? He could turn the tide of the war wherever he appears!”

Leonard held up a hand, silencing him. “We’re not blind to the danger. We believe he’s heading to Treon, where another siege has begun. But for now, we will do nothing.”

“Nothing?” Gareth repeated, incredulous.

Leonard’s gaze was unyielding. “We have no resources to spare chasing a single mage, no matter how powerful. Our focus is here on Hassel. We’ll bring the blood wards down, take the citadel, and solidify our position in the region. Treon will hold.”

Gareth exhaled slowly. He respected Leonard’s strategic mind, but the implications of allowing such a threat to go unchecked left a bitter taste in his mouth, especially since he had been the one to cause it.

Leonard stepped closer, lowering his voice. “You said the shamans need power to break the wards. Tell me your solution.”

Gareth did, and was gratified when Leonard nodded solemnly.

The ritual site was a market square just outside the citadel’s southern walls, where the shamans prepared their offerings. The orcs spread animal blood in intricate patterns across the ground to create an animistic circle. The smell of iron hung heavily in the air, mingling with the earthy scents of dirt and sweat.

Gareth stood at the center of the gathering. Behind him, hundreds of soldiers watched silently, their faces illuminated by the flickering flames. They were battle-worn but watched over the work with great curiosity.

Elder Wei approached Gareth, tapping her staff against the ground with every step. “We’re ready,” she grunted. “The wards will manifest as soon as we begin. The spirits will sense our intent and resist at first, but if we can overpower the framework, they’ll turn against their masters.”

Gareth nodded. “And you’re sure this will work?”

Wei’s sharp eyes locked onto his. “It’ll work if you deliver the power you promised.”

Gareth took a deep breath, steadying himself. He stepped forward, raising his voice to address the troops. “Men and women of the revolution! Tonight, we stand on the cusp of victory. The blood wards that have kept us from taking this city will fall. That is inevitable, as the Heavens have decreed it so.”

The soldiers murmured, shifting uneasily. Gareth activated a sound-enhancing spell, and his voice boomed.

“The Light guides us!” he shouted, the words cutting through the tension. “Each of you carries a spark of its power, no matter your station or skill. Lend your strength to this effort. Pray to the Light, and it will answer!”

Elder Wei’s brows rose in skepticism and surprise. “You’re calling on their faith?”

Gareth turned to her. “Faith is power, Elder. It may not be the kind you wield, but it’s just as real.”

The shamans exchanged uncertain glances, but Wei gave a curt nod. “Then we begin.”

The orcs knelt around the animistic circle, and their guttural chants rose into the night. The blood wards flared into visibility, bathing the area in an eerie glow. The air grew thick with tension as the spirits within the wards writhed in visible agony as the shamans’ magic began to take hold.

Gareth raised his arms, enhancing his voice above the chants. “Pray! Pray with all your heart! Let the Light guide your strength!”

The soldiers hesitated, but as the glow of the wards intensified, they knelt one by one and began to murmur prayers. Their collective hum grew louder as they harmonized.

The animistic circle began to glow, its blood evaporating into crimson mist. The shamans’ chants reached a crescendo, and their voices blended with the soldiers’ prayers in a surreal harmony. The blood wards quivered, their structure flickering as the combined power of faith and magic pressed against them.

Elder Wei turned to Gareth, her voice strained but determined. “Now, boy! Finish it!”

Gareth clenched his fists, channeling his determination into the effort. The sound of prayers grew deafening, a chorus of hope and defiance that appeared to shake the heavens.

“Channel your anger! Channel your love! Channel your soul! Praise Him! Praise the Hero!”

Light bloomed.

Chapter 157 - Siege Works - Amelia 14

The column of light split the sky, painting Hassel's battered streets in gold. For the first time in days, Amelia allowed herself to feel a spark of unrestrained joy. A wide grin spread across her face, lighting up her features as she threw her head back and laughed—raw, triumphant, alive.

Below her, the city trembled with the force of Gareth’s voice, carried by magic and faith alike.

“Praise the Hero. Praise HIM!”

The words rolled through Hassel like thunder, resonating through stone and soul alike. Soldiers paused mid-step, gazing skyward in awe, and weapons slipped from suddenly slack hands. Soot-stained mages gaped skyward.

The air crackled with energy, and Amelia's skin tingled. She found herself whispering, "It worked.”

Gareth’s wild idea was suddenly not so crazy, and she realized it would change everything. Whatever the knight had experienced in Volten that made him so confident he could harness the power of faith was legitimate, and suddenly, the Revolution had a new source of power at their disposal.

That crazy bastard. When he proposed the plan, I thought he’d try to harvest the Light left behind by Leonard’s buff spells. But no, for once, he actually saw things more clearly than I did. I can admit to that, at least to myself.

The only other person who knew this was possible was probably Leonard himself.

And he was nowhere to be found, but that didn’t surprise her. She knew exactly where he was. He would be waiting at the edge of the citadel, ready to lead the charge the moment the blood wards fell. He trusted Gareth to succeed, just as he had trusted her to hold the line in his absence.

That level of faith in his subordinates makes it easy to understand how the army could regard him so highly. It’s not just a question of raw power; the people actually believe in him.

A battle-worn mage stumbled to the wall beside her, clutching a shattered staff. “My Lady," he wheezed, "the eastern batteries report their crystals are fracturing. The Light—it's interfering with the containment fields."

“Have them pull back," she replied. "We won't need siege engines anymore."

Dismissing him, she raised her hands to the heavens, palms open to the light. She could feel its pull, an overwhelming presence that called to something deep within her. For the first time in years, she let her eyes slip shut and gave herself completely to prayer. Her voice joined the echo of Gareth’s words, not in mimicry but in her own heartfelt plea.

“Guide us, Light. Fill us. Deliver us.”

The warmth that followed was incredible. It coursed through her veins like liquid gold, filling the cracks in her weary soul and reigniting the fire that had threatened to wane. Around her, soldiers and mages alike whispered prayers of their own, blending their voices in a strange and beautiful harmony.

Amelia opened her eyes to see something she had only read about in tales from the Age of Heroes. Tiny flickers of golden light began to gather around them. At first, they were faint—mere glimmers like fireflies. But as the prayers intensified, so too did the light. It grew brighter and bolder, swirling together as if it were alive.

It rose in a shimmering stream, rushing to join the radiant column in the sky. The sheer force of the energy filling the air nearly brought Amelia to her knees, but she stood her ground, her arms trembling as she kept praying.

Beside her, Oliver didn’t share her stubbornness and gave himself away freely. The young man stumbled and fell to his knees, gripping the cold stone of the wall as golden blood trickled from his eyes and nose. His voice was raw, and his words slurred with exhaustion, but he didn’t stop.

“Light… grant us this victory,” he rasped. “Cleanse this place of darkness… let them see His glory.”

Amelia instinctively reached out, brushing his shoulder. She didn’t speak—words felt inadequate for such a moment—but her touch conveyed all the strength she could muster. Oliver’s lips curved into a smile, and he redoubled his efforts, lifting his trembling voice once more.

Through the wall's arrow slits, she caught a glimpse of the chaos unfolding in the streets below. A circle of battlemages had gathered around Senior Artificer Helena, linked through their hands as they fought to contain the surge of wild magic. Helena's mechanical arm whirred and sparked as she desperately worked to control the excess power through constant adjustments. The enchanted gems embedded in her prosthetic blazed with an inner fire as she redirected the surplus energy into the cannons she had brought.

"The old patterns are breaking," Helena called up to Amelia. "Whatever's happening, it's rewriting the fundamental laws. I've never seen anything like it.”

“Embrace it,” Amelia commanded, almost feeling pity for the woman who couldn’t enjoy the miracle.

The light continued to build, reaching a crescendo that was almost too much to bear. Amelia’s heart thundered in her chest, and her vision blurred from the intensity of the golden glow. She felt as if she were standing at the edge of the world, teetering on the precipice of something vast and unknowable.

Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the light show ended.

The column dissipated in a final, blinding flash, leaving behind a faint shimmer in the air. Amelia gasped, and her knees buckled as the overwhelming power receded. She caught herself on the edge of the wall, breathing hard, and slowly turned back to the citadel.

The blood wards, which had stood as an impenetrable barrier for so long, were breaking apart. The crimson glow that had once bathed the citadel in malevolence flickered and faltered. The spirits trapped within the wards wailed as the shamans’ magic cleansed them, transforming their cries of agony into something almost serene as they were freed.

The wards crumbled like shattered glass as large pieces disintegrated into nothingness. The soldiers below cheered in a triumphant roar that shook the very foundations of Hassel. Amelia joined in, hoarse but jubilant.

Next to her, Oliver slumped to the ground, utterly spent. She knelt beside him, placing her hand on his shoulder as they both stared at the now-vulnerable citadel.

“It’s over,” Oliver murmured, weak but so hopeful. He, more than anyone, relied on his faith to propel him forward. It was what had brought him back from the brink after his mistake had led to his friends' temporary deaths and what allowed him to rise in rank so quickly. It was no surprise he felt drained—he had the most to give.

Amelia shook her head, a fierce glint in her eyes. “Not yet. But it will be.”

Despite the triumph she was feeling, a chill crawled up her spine. Something stirred—a sensation she had not felt in days.

Her contract with the shadow plane trembled at the edge of her awareness.

Amelia froze, instinctively tracing the thread to her permanent connection with the True Shadow. It had remained mostly silent since the aerial battle, when she had expended much of the power that the Elemental King of Darkness had allowed her to wield. She had anticipated that it would take weeks for the balance of her contract to restore itself. Yet now, it surged back with unsettling intensity.

The air around her grew colder, and the world seemed to dim slightly. Shadows lengthened unnaturally, bending toward her as if drawn by an unseen force. An echoing whisper brushed against her mind like the distant echo of thunder.

“Child of shadows…”

Amelia’s breath hitched. She had not heard that voice since she forged the contract. The sheer presence behind it was overwhelming, a vast and ancient entity that dwarfed any mortal understanding. The Elemental King of Darkness wasn’t just speaking to her—it was using her body to see into the material plane.

Reality around her faded completely. The southern wall, the cheering soldiers, the shattered wards—all of it dissolved into a void of endless darkness. She stood alone, suspended in nothingness, as violet eyes as vast as galaxies opened, dissecting her soul.

Amelia forced herself to stand tall. Her contract marked her as an equal. She wouldn’t show subservience that wasn’t deserved. “Why now?” she managed to say, steadier than she expected.

“What has been unleashed in Hassel… calls to us all. Light stirs, and so too must shadow. You stand at the precipice of an Apotheosis.”

Her eyes widened. Apotheosis.

It was whispered in the darkest corners of esoteric studies, a transformation that elevated and Ascended to something beyond. It was a process believed to be impossible, as even the greatest elemental beings couldn’t cross the boundary. Only archmages and elven mage-lords ever spoke of it, and even then, only as a theoretical exercise to stretch their imagination.

Leonard. The Light’s response to Gareth’s call for faith in him, the prayers of an army, and the surge of divine energy—all of it clicked into place. His presence as an Ascended among mortals was changing the way people thought—the way reality interacted with their thoughts. He was becoming something far more, even without doing anything to cause it.

The Elemental King’s eyes narrowed. “Be wary, child. The Chosen’s touch is seductive, even to those who serve the shadow. Should you falter, it will consume you.”

Amelia prepared to respond, but the presence withdrew suddenly. The oppressive void shattered like glass, and she found herself back on the southern wall, the cold wind biting at her skin. The soldiers’ cheers were still ringing out, but they sounded distant and muted.

For a moment, she stood still, shaken. The clause allowing the Elemental King to take over her body required strict circumstances, one of which was coming into the presence of a divine being—or the process that created one. If Leonard truly was undergoing such a transformation, it would explain the Light’s overwhelming response.

What little is known—and even that is mostly speculation—says that it should be a long process but also that once it starts…well, things beyond our reach are in motion. Leonard is the only one who can do anything about this, and I’ll have to trust he can handle it.

Her fingers curled into a fist. There was no time to dwell on the implications. Leonard had entrusted her with breaking the citadel’s defenses once the wards were down, and she wasn’t about to fail him.

A young scout approached her, fear plain on his face. How long had she stood there, locked in communion with the King?

“My Lady, the Loyalists—they're preparing something. Their warmages are gathering at the battlements."

She squinted through the lingering spots in her vision. Sure enough, red-robed figures scurried along the citadel walls like angry ants.

“Oh no, you don’t!” Amelia's voice cracked like a whip. "Mage corps! Begin siege spells. The priority target is the cluster of mages. Form up! The locals must join us, too!”

The mages scattered to their positions, forming groups to amplify their spells. The Tower mages she had integrated into her forces also prepared to cast, though with some hesitation. She allowed them this opportunity, but remained vigilant for any signs of treachery. They had one chance to prove themselves. Only one.

Amelia reached for her mana reserves, only to pause as she felt something unexpected. A new wellspring of power surged within her. The Elemental King had left her a gift—more than enough mana to fulfill her part of their contract.

Her lips twisted into a smirk. “I can consider the debt paid, then,” she murmured.

Amelia joined the mages, weaving her own magic into the assault. Dark tendrils of shadow coiled around her fingers, snapping forward as she chanted an incantation. A massive shadow bolt tore through the air, striking the citadel’s outer wall with a thunderous impact. Stone crumbled under the assault, and Loyalist soldiers scrambled for cover.

The barrage intensified as the locals joined in. Fireballs, lightning bolts, and shards of ice fell upon the citadel, tearing through its defenses with relentless fury. Amelia’s shadow magic spread like ink across the walls, seeping into cracks and weakening their structure.

As the walls started to buckle under the assault, Amelia allowed herself a brief moment of satisfaction. Things were going just as planned. Soon, Leonard would lead the charge, and the citadel would fall.

Chapter 158 - Smash Through - Leonard 52

The world pulsed with light, and a hum filled the air as Leonard stood amid the gathering storm of belief. It was a powerful mix of emotion, will, and fervent devotion, a torrent that raged beneath the surface of reality and had now been brought to life by Gareth’s unwavering faith. The column of Light still stretched skyward, though it was starting to waver the longer he went without answering its call.

Leonard felt the relentless pull of his people’s faith. Their prayers were not abstract; they were tangible, insistent, and in search of a vessel. He knew with chilling clarity that vessel could be him. They wanted it to be him. The path to godhood was clear and painfully simple. He needed only to reach out and accept their belief, drawing it fully into himself. If he did, the final barrier between him and divinity would shatter.

It would be so easy. I have been aware of it for a while, but this is the clearest it has ever been. If I took it now, I might not ascend perfectly, but I’d still be able to do it.

The thought chilled him. Easy, yes—but irrevocable. He closed his eyes, and for a moment, he let himself imagine it: the power to shape the world with a thought, to rise above the petty squabbles and limitations of mortality, to become something greater than he had ever dreamed. But he also recognized the cost. Divinity didn’t just mean more power—it was transformation. To surpass the barrier meant shedding the trappings of humanity—more than he had already done—becoming a creature of the empyrean, unbound by mortal concerns. He would no longer walk among his people; his very presence would strain the fabric of reality, distorting it around him.

He would be something else. Something apart.

I knew when I decided to move beyond Champion that I wouldn’t be mortal anymore. However, I thought I could still live among my loved ones, and that it was the only choice at the time to stop the Void. There’s no need for this now.

Leonard opened his eyes and worked his jaw. No. The price was too high. He would not trade his humanity for godhood, no matter how passionately the prayers called to him. His strength was not his alone—it was the result of countless lives and sacrifices. To abandon those lives for some celestial throne would be the ultimate betrayal. He had to see the Revolution through.

He refused.

The decision was made in an instant, yet it left an indelible mark. The column of Light began to fade, dissolving into the gathering dusk, and Leonard felt a strange stillness settle over him. Outwardly, nothing seemed to change. The world continued as it had, with glimmers of light dissipating like mist in the wind, leaving only faint traces of gold in the air. Yet inwardly, he sensed that something had shifted.

A faint but undeniable presence lingered in his mind. It was still him, yet it felt different. It was the part of him that had gazed into the abyss of godhood and had not recoiled. A fragment of himself whispered of power, ascension, abandoning the frailties of flesh and embracing something eternal. It did not speak, not yet, but it remained patient and knowing.

It would wait. The day would come when his work was finished, and mortal affections couldn’t hold him back any longer. It felt no need to push him.

Leonard shook off his lingering unease. He had no time to dwell on metaphysical riddles; the battle was not yet won. The blood wards were weakening, starting to suffer under the concerted effort, but with the number of lives Pollus sacrificed for them, they’d be able to hold. The orc shamans were deep in their work, their chants rising and falling like waves, weaving their magic through the remnants of the Light.

He reached out to help. The shamans were strong, and their magic was potent, but the surge of power from the prayers had been immense. Without guidance, it could overwhelm them, shattering their efforts instead of aiding them. Leonard subtly directed the current, channeling the energy into their ritual, smoothing its rough edges and balancing its flow.

Elder Wei’s voice rose above the others, serving as a pillar of strength within the circle. As Leonard worked, he noticed her eyes flicker briefly in his direction. She knew. The process was unfolding too smoothly, with the spirits of the blood wards responding too readily. He caught a glimpse of suspicion in her gaze, but she said nothing, keeping her focus on the ritual. He would need to speak with her once the citadel was secured.

The spirits trapped within the wards began to stir, releasing anguished cries as the framework started to fail. Leonard sensed their pain and desperation, guiding the belief through the shamans to cleanse them. The Light wove around the spirits, dissolving the chains that bound them and offering peace instead of vengeance. Gradually, the oppressive energy of the blood wards unraveled, and their crimson glow faded into nothingness.

When the last spirit was freed, the wards collapsed. The ground shook as the magical structure fell apart, but there was no shockwave since the power source—the spirits—was gone, leaving only the citadel’s stone walls behind. The rebel troops cheered, their voices a triumphant roar that echoed across the battlefield.

Leonard took a brief moment to breathe, focusing his gaze on the citadel. The wards had been the Loyalists’ strongest defense. Without them, the walls were vulnerable, just stone and mortar that could be breached. Victory was now within reach.

I’m sure old Pollus has something else prepared. He’s the type to go down swinging, so I don’t expect a neat surrender even now. It’s a pity; he would have been a wonderful addition to the War Council, but there’s a limit to how ruthless one can be, and he would never relinquish his ideals anyway. I might have been more merciful if he hadn’t gotten his hands on Void weapons, but I cannot allow anyone to think that’s a viable strategy. It must be stamped out at all costs.

Leonard stepped forward, drawing Dyeus from its sheath. Behind him, the elite of the Revolutionary Army stood ready, weapons drawn and eyes fixed on the towering citadel walls ahead.

The first of the magical bombardments struck above them. A dazzling plume of fiery light blossomed against the wall, sending a shockwave rippling outward as Amelia’s siege team began their work. It was deliberate, calculated chaos designed to draw the defenders’ attention to the ramparts and away from the traps meticulously prepared for the assault. Pollus hadn’t put all his eggs in one basket, but his arrogance would be his undoing.

I’m sure he never imagined that an old dwarf, who spent decades being overlooked for a promotion he deserved, would be his downfall. Well, he would have lost anyway, but this will make the outcome even worse for him.

Leonard raised his gauntleted hand. “Brothers! Sisters!” he shouted, turning to face the men and women behind him. “Today, we finish what we started. Today, we reclaim Hassel—not for lust of power, not for vengeance, but for freedom. For a better world!”

A cheer rose from the ranks, but Leonard wasn’t finished. He raised Dyeus into the air, and a golden aura erupted from the blade, cascading over the soldiers like a wave of sunlight.

[Halo of the Righteous]. It is time to end this.

Leonard could feel the spell’s power surging through him, amplified beyond anything he had previously wielded on his people. However, these soldiers were no longer the raw recruits they had been at the start of the campaign. They had become tempered steel forged in battle, their bodies and minds sharpened by months of hardship and victory. The buff spread rapidly, and Leonard felt their strength swell.

These were no longer ordinary men and women. The average fighter in this assault force was an expert—seasoned and deadly. They were the elite of the Revolutionary Army, the kind of soldiers who could hold their own against knights and champions. Leonard couldn’t help but envision what they might become in the years to come—Masters, perhaps even something greater. The thought stirred something primal within him, a fierce pride tempered by anticipation.

But there was no time for musing. The battle awaited.

With the soldiers faintly glowing from the effects of his blessing, Leonard turned back to the citadel. The enchanted iron doors blocking their path were made of panels inscribed with runes meant to repel both physical and magical attacks. He approached them as Dyeus hummed eagerly in his hand, ready for battle.

“For freedom!" he shouted like thunder.

He swung Dyeus in a wide arc, channeling the Light into a concentrated blast. The resulting wave struck the doors with an earsplitting crack. The runes shattered in a cascade of sparks, and the iron melted, sloughing off the hinges like wax. A cloud of steam hissed into the air as the entrance to the citadel yawned open.

Dyeus hummed in his hands, pleased to have the opportunity to destroy the enemy’s stronghold.

“Charge!” Leonard roared.

The soldiers advanced like a wave of flesh and steel. The air vibrated with war magic as the Mage Corps unleashed chaos upon the enemies of the Revolution.

Leonard led the charge, forging a path through the defenders who scrambled to confront him. The blade sliced cleanly, cutting through shields and armor as if they were made of parchment. With every swing, bursts of light erupted, annihilating swathes of the enemy and illuminating the battlefield with flashes of gold.

As the assault force flooded into the citadel, Rusty’s contributions proved invaluable. The old dwarf had spent years as an adventurer, and his expertise in traps was unmatched. Leonard’s troops moved with precision, evading the hidden pitfalls and ambush points that had been set for them. When they encountered a trap too complex to bypass, engineers and mages worked together to disable it.

A volley of arrows rained down from the upper galleries. Leonard raised his free hand, and a shimmering shield of Light flared to life, incinerating the projectiles to harmless ash. “Archers, to the walls!” he called, and a group of bowmen broke away to confront the threat.

The defenders were strong—well-trained knights and mages who fought with the desperation of men aware that their time had come. However, the revolutionary soldiers proved stronger. Leonard’s blessing made them faster, sharper, and more resilient. They moved as a single, cohesive unit, cutting down their opponents with brutal efficiency.

“Secure the eastern wing!” Leonard barked, pointing Dyeus toward an alley branching to their right. A captain saluted as his squad split off to clear the area.

As they pressed deeper into the citadel, the fighting intensified. The narrow corridors forced them into brutal close-quarters combat. Leonard fought at the front, serving as a beacon that rallied his troops and struck fear into the enemy. He was relentless, and every swing of Dyeus brought death.

He also served as a catalyst for the enemy’s attention, enabling his troops to utilize Rusty’s map to outmaneuver the defenders at every turn. Where the enemy anticipated an ambush, they discovered themselves flanked. Where they had established a kill zone, the revolutionaries dismantled their defenses before they could respond.

By the time they reached the central area where the main stronghold stood, the defenders were in disarray. The Revolutionary Army spread out, securing choke points and erecting barricades. The citadel was vast, and the battle was far from over, but the momentum was on their side.

Leonard stood in the center of the courtyard, Dyeus glowing faintly at his side. Around him, his soldiers moved to complete the encirclement. He could sense the tide of battle shifting, the enemy’s morale crumbling under their assault.

Now, where is Pollus? I expected him to be here by now, which means he still has something up his sleeve.

Chapter 159 - Push Back - Leonard 53

Leonard advanced toward the holdfast, indifferent to the blood pooling on the stone. The air was thick with the scent of burning metal and ozone, remnants of Amelia’s magical bombardments. She had done well in clearing the path, but he had expected to encounter more resistance, even accounting for her success. A few hundred men were far from what Pollus had at his disposal.

He knew the man was inside, barricaded behind layers of defenses, waiting like a cornered beast. The Count would never surrender. He would have to be dragged out or, more likely, killed in a final stand dramatic enough to satisfy the old general.

The moment they stepped within sight of the holdfast’s doors, the sky ignited.

A cascade of raw magic poured down from the towers, saturating the air with lethal force. Brilliant arcs of flame, bolts of crackling lightning, and spheres of arcane destruction rained down on the rebels with terrifying speed. Walls of force solidified to crush intruders, and scorching winds turned the stone pathways into molten slag. It was evident that while the traps were intended to thin out the advancing army, this was where the remnants would be annihilated. Or at least, that’s what any reasonable commander would think.

Count Pollus didn’t possess the raw power necessary to resist the Revolution, but it would be unwise to consider him average—or reasonable. Anyone who spent decades commanding the Death Fort would be highly skilled in unconventional warfare.

Always another trick. I doubt he thinks this is enough, but that doesn’t mean Pollus isn’t counting on it weakening us.

Leonard was there to deny them. He raised both hands, calling upon the Light.

A radiant barrier erupted around his forces, golden and absolute. The spells struck the shield with earth-shattering force, sending ripples across its surface. Some bursts of energy managed to slip around the edges before he could fully set it up, but the empowered soldiers withstood them easily, sufficiently strengthened by Leonard’s magic. The city behind them, however, would not have been as fortunate. Without the barrier, an entire neighborhood of Hassel would have been leveled.

He truly doesn’t care anymore. If the city burns down, he’ll have deprived us of a major fortress. It’s a win-win for him.

Minutes dragged on, stretching into eternity. The barrier held, but he needed to reinforce it two more times. He could have cast a more powerful shield spell, but that would have caused nearly as much damage to the surroundings as the barrage.

This was still more than any previous enemy ambush had achieved. It was evident that Pollus had retained the best and brightest by his side in case he needed to defend the city.

Leonard’s men stood behind him, waiting and trusting him to lead them through this storm of death. They wouldn’t be swayed by this little light show, not with how much power he had given them.

Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the bombardment ceased. Silence enveloped the battlefield, broken only by the smoldering armory square left before him. The enemy appeared to have exhausted their reserves— or perhaps they believed they had weakened him enough.

Leonard did not lower his guard, and his caution was rewarded.

A shadow slid through his senses, a sickening, familiar wrongness that made his skin crawl. It was a corruption that had no place in the world—an absence rather than a presence. He turned his head slightly, keeping his stance casual, but his entire body was tense.

Again and again. He really enjoys using powers beyond his understanding, doesn’t he? I don’t even dislike the Count that much, but this is becoming something I can’t ignore. He must be purged, and any stash he has left must go with him.

Void assassins. Cloaked in darkness deeper than darkness, their bodies blurred the air as they moved, their forms wrapped in artifacts that defied nature. Their weapons, forged in the blood of the abyss, shimmered with an anti-light that consumed existence itself. They had come for him at what they believed was his weakest moment, thinking the shield had drained him.

He felt no pity for them. The most he could do for them now would be to eradicate their corrupted souls before they could spread that taint.

Before they could get close enough to strike, Leonard moved. He didn't hesitate or offer any words of warning or mercy. They were filth, tainted beyond redemption, and he would not endure their existence for another moment.

Dyeus howled.

The holy sword blazed with righteous fury as he swung it, slicing through the unnatural darkness that concealed his enemies. The first assassin barely had time to realize his fate before Dyeus severed him from reality, reducing his body to nothingness. The others reacted instantly, vanishing into the folds of their shrouds, but it made no difference.

Leonard could see them. The Light illuminated them in ways they could not comprehend.

He lunged, eyes glowing golden and teeth bared. Another assassin attempted to stab him from behind with a void blade aimed at his spine, but Leonard twisted mid-step, swinging Dyeus with centrifugal force. The blade encountered resistance for only a moment before slicing through the assassin’s weapon, his arm, and finally, his very existence. He was unmade, erased from the world.

The remaining assassins hesitated. They had anticipated an exhausted target but instead encountered a monster. What little humanity was left within them that had yet to be fully absorbed by the Void probably screamed that they stood before an impossible target. A predator of a higher food chain.

Leonard didn’t allow them to retreat. He didn’t believe this was just another distraction—another way for Pollus to test his abilities and adjust his final surprise. But he didn’t care. Anything touched by the Void had to be erased.

With a surge of divine speed, he closed the distance. A downward slash cleaved through one assassin before he could blink. Another attempted to dodge, but Leonard seized him by the throat, squeezing hard enough to crack bones before driving Dyeus through his chest, cleansing his tainted soul from existence.

The last of them attempted to flee, vanishing into a wisp of void energy thanks to his cloak. Leonard raised his hand, summoning a spear of Light, and hurled it with unerring precision. The assassin scarcely had time to scream before he was obliterated.

The soldiers before were armed with void weapons, but they were still recognizably human. These assassins were too tainted. Pollus must have started the process as soon as word of the Revolution reached him.

The battlefield was still once more.

Leonard exhaled slowly, allowing his senses to stretch outward. No more Void taint. No more slithering filth. Good.

He turned back to his soldiers. They had watched in stunned silence, only vaguely aware of the battle beyond the flashes of gold and the cries of the damned. When he met their eyes, there was no fear—only reverence.

“Forward,” he ordered, uncompromising. Again, he raised a barrier, knowing better than to expect the surprises to be done.

Dyeus still burned in his grip, eager and insatiable. Leonard understood that feeling. Pollus had revealed his hand, showing his willingness to use the Void in his desperation. There would be no mercy now.

It is almost nostalgic, in a way. Back then, things were simpler. I just had to destroy anything in my way. I suppose I must thank Pollus. The Void must have been a tempting weapon for him to wield against me, but it also gives me the perfect justification to erase any trace of the old regime.

They surged ahead, pushing deeper into the citadel, but once again, their charge was interrupted. A new bombardment of magic rained down, forcing them into defensive formations. Fire, ice, and raw kinetic force struck with precision, designed to maximize destruction. It was somewhat weaker than before, but Leonard did not let his guard slip. He knew better than to fall for the ruse.

Raising his hand, he strengthened the golden barrier that protected his soldiers and the city beyond. The shield flared, absorbing the impact, but he could already sense the weight of something greater forming ahead.

Here are the mages Amelia didn’t find. At least this way, we won’t have to waste time chasing them around the city. It would have been frustrating if they had mingled with the civilians.

The arrogance of the old regime never ceased to aid him.

Then, a massive and focused spell coalesced, and he had to actually focus on defending his men.

The citadel's mages had gathered their remaining strength. Leonard could hear them chanting in unison, their voices merging into a singular force of will. The magic they wove was no ordinary spell; it was ancient and designed to devastate entire armies—part of the great tradition of Hetnia’s mages. Leonard narrowed his eyes as the incantation reached its crescendo.

[King’s Justice.]

A blinding silver beam erupted from the citadel’s core, a massive lance of raw destruction that cleaved the battlefield in two. It struck Leonard’s barrier with an earth-shaking force. For the first time in a long while, Leonard took a step back.

It wasn’t fear or even strain—only surprise. He had not expected them to still hold such power. Their reserves should have been nearly depleted, yet here they were, summoning the last remnants of their strength in one final act of defiance.

So far, any resistance had been dealt with ease, and even the single loss the Revolution had suffered had more to do with cleverness than raw might. The strategic assessment of Hassel’s forces made no mention of this level of magical coordination, and Leonard would know, as he had spent a long time here fighting for his life against the Void. If the locals had been capable of casting Champion tier magic this easily, they would have scoured the region for the Void’s taint without needing to summon a Hero.

That can only mean two things: either Pollus has somehow managed to rediscover Hetnia’s ancient tradition and has gotten all his loyal mages to spend every waking moment practicing, or someone else is assisting them.

Leonard had a healthy respect for his enemy, but this was too much. For the few Master mages left behind to be capable of this… No, it was much more likely that the Champion mage that had fled was the actual cause behind it.

Meanwhile, the barrier cracked, groaning under the pressure of the spell. Still, it held—even against this.

Then, above the roar of power, a voice from within the citadel cried out. “What now, Weiss? Do you beg us to surrender once again?”

Leonard laughed. A deep, full-throated roar that carried over the battlefield.

“No,” he called back, effortlessly reaching every man. “But it is only polite to recognize the dead their due.”

The magic did not waver. They would not be swayed by words alone.

Leonard’s laughter faded, and his expression hardened. He lifted Dyeus high, the sacred blade shimmering with barely contained radiance.

“Then let me show you your reward.”

He thrust the sword forward, and the world ignited.

[Smite.]

A beam of light erupted from the blade, a counterforce of divine power so pure that reality itself seemed to tremble. The battlefield was engulfed in brilliance. For a moment, there was no sound—only endless, all-consuming light.

Chapter 160 - Do What you Have to - Jeremiah 6

Jeremiah wiped the sweat from his brow, but it did little good. He was drenched, his fine uniform clinging to his back like a second skin, and the air around him was thick with the scent of fear and unwashed bodies. The noble-born of Hassel had gathered in the central fortress like panicked livestock.

At times, they begged for reassurance; at other times, their voices became a cacophony of demands as they rebelled against the notion that their nobility had lost its worth. They knew the rebels were coming for their heads, and the way they scrambled over each other to seek Count Pollus’s favor was nothing short of pathetic.

Their stunted, atrophied brains couldn’t grasp that the count himself had no way out of this, that he had no intention of leaving his post. Like a ship captain, the old man would go down with his vessel.

He ignored them. He had more important concerns.

His pulse throbbed uncomfortably in his throat, and his breath came shorter than it should have. His body felt wrong—clammy and cold despite the oppressive heat within the fortress. A dull ache throbbed at the base of his skull, worsening when he tried to recall anything about the strange tattoo on his inner wrist. He had no memory of getting it, no idea what it meant, but every time he glanced at it, nausea coiled in his gut like a living thing.

No time for that. He straightened his back and forced himself to focus.

Order has to be restored. We’ll get slaughtered if our plans continue to collapse, but if I have to go down, I’d rather go down fighting.

Of course, Jeremiah did not intend to die here, but he was enough of a realist to know his chances were slim.

Pollus played his part well, standing tall despite the growing panic. His voice remained steady, and he gave orders to the officers who remained loyal to him—avoiding those who seemed too scared to act. That was one of the main lessons Jeremiah had learned from the man. Only ever bother to issue orders if you know they’ll be followed or if you want an excuse to eliminate rebellious subordinates. But the current situation didn’t allow such power plays.

Pollus directed troops to hold the planned choke points and positioned mages in key vantage points. Traps had been prepared for the inevitable siege, and if everything went according to plan, they could drain the rebels dry before they ever set foot inside the inner sanctum—if. At this point, no one believed that.

Jeremiah found solace in the Count’s calm demeanor. The old man surely had a hidden scheme, of that he was sure, though he didn’t know the specifics, as even he had been kept in the dark. Pollus was too composed, too methodical in the face of what should have been a guaranteed defeat. Whatever plan he had, Jeremiah had been tasked with keeping the order, and he would do his duty.

First, he had to handle the nobles.

They were huddled together in the main hall in a writhing mass of silk and perfume. Their pompous bravado had been stripped away by the grim reality—something which he couldn’t deny drawing enjoyment from.

Some shouted at Pollus, demanding he send messengers to negotiate terms. Others clung to one another, whispering about escape or exile. A few had already given up, their faces slack with resignation.

“Silence!” Jeremiah barked, sharp enough to cut through the chaos.

They hesitated but did not comply, not that he had expected them to. It wasn’t until he stepped forward, resting his hand purposefully on the hilt of his sword, that they fell silent. Such a show should have seen him thrown in the darkest cell if he wasn’t stripped of his rank and made into a slave. But the rule of law was long gone from Hassel and only might made right.

“This is our last stand,” he said, meeting the eyes of all those brave enough to face him. “Accept that now. You can either confront it with dignity or bring disgrace to your houses with cowardice.”

One particularly bloated noble, red-faced and reeking of wine, sneered at him. “Who are you to speak to us like this? A half-blood, a commoner’s brat pretending to be a knight? If we fall, Hetnia falls with us. Do you really think we can escape this alive if things keep going as they are?”

Jeremiah’s vision blurred. His head throbbed, and his breath came in short gasps. The tattoo on his wrist burned, even though he knew it made no sense.

He didn’t think. He acted.

His palm struck the noble’s cheek with a sharp crack. The man hit the wall with a crack, gasping and clutching his bloodied face in shock. The hall descended into stunned silence.

Jeremiah exhaled slowly, his pulse racing. He hadn’t intended to hit the fool. Or maybe he had. He wasn’t certain anymore.

The fear in their eyes had changed. It was no longer the blind panic of those who believed themselves above war. It was the awareness that the old rules no longer applied. The laws, the hierarchy, and the unbreakable order of the kingdom had begun to disintegrate, leaving them uncertain about who truly held power.

Jeremiah himself was not sure.

He met the wide, astonished eyes of the noble he had struck. “I think we’ll live longer if you keep your mouth shut and follow orders."

No one objected.

His hands trembled as he turned away. He clenched them into fists, forcing himself to breathe through the inexplicable unease crawling beneath his skin. The memory of his encounter—one he couldn’t quite grasp—drifted just out of reach. He had changed over the past weeks, hardened and sharpened into something both more and less than he had been before. It felt as though something fundamental had been done to him, yet he couldn’t identify what.

A headache bloomed behind his eyes. He didn’t fight it. He had work to do.

Jeremiah spent his time barking orders to the remaining security forces. Pollus had placed him in command of them, and he was determined to ensure they held until the very last moment. Whatever power or curse had infiltrated his soul, whatever fate awaited them beyond these walls, it didn’t matter now.

The enemy was coming.

And he would be ready.

He paced along the inner walls of the citadel, annoyed by the clicking of his boots against the cold stone. Distant screams and the clash of steel echoed through the fortress. The enemy was coming faster than expected—too fast. The traps had barely slowed them down, and the enchanted barricades were falling like sandcastles against the tide. He felt it in his bones—the battle for the citadel was already lost.

His hands twitched at his sides. Sweat gathered on his brow, dampening the edges of his dark hair. He didn’t like this. He wasn’t afraid of fighting, nor of dying. But something gnawed at him, something deep in his marrow. Every fiber of his being screamed that he shouldn’t be here when the walls finally fell.

Nearby, a group of junior officers cursed and shouted amongst themselves.

“There are traitors among us!” one barked, his armor scuffed and his face smeared with blood. “How else could they have known where the traps were?”

“Damn servants, I bet one of them sold us out,” another growled, gripping the hilt of his sword with white-knuckled rage.

The few remaining servants in the area—a handful of ashen-faced men and women—huddled against the wall, curling in trembling surrender. Most of their peers had been sacrificed in the ritual to power the Blood Wards. These were the scraps that remained, the ones unlucky enough to survive.

Jeremiah watched the officers close in on them with cold, detached eyes. He wasn’t particularly interested in their suffering, nor did he care to halt the accusations. He knew there were no traitors; he had stood by Count Pollus’s side when the rituals were conducted. The enemy was aware of their defenses because they had been preparing for this moment for months, possibly years. The revolution had been orchestrated with ruthless efficiency. The nobles just refused to see it until it was too late.

A scream broke through the air as one of the officers dragged a middle-aged servant forward and slammed him against a table. The man let out a pained grunt, but his protests were ignored.

“Confess!” the officer snarled, drawing a dagger from his belt. “Tell us who sold us out!”

The servant whimpered, shaking his head in wide-eyed terror. Jeremiah sighed. He turned away, letting them do as they pleased. They needed a scapegoat, and if that would help them fight a little harder, so be it.

His fingers brushed against his inner wrist, tracing the edge of his tattoo. The ink burned against his skin. He had been feeling it ever since the Blood Wards collapsed—a dull throb that refused to fade. He clenched his fist. What the hell was happening to him?

A boom shook the walls, and the torches flickered wildly as the ground trembled. Jeremiah staggered, grabbing the edge of the table to steady himself. Outside, shouts rose in alarm. The enemy had breached the gates.

He rushed to the nearest arrow slit and peered down into the main courtyard. What he saw made his breath catch in his throat.

The revolutionary forces surged forward like a tidal wave. The enchanted iron gates had been melted clean off their hinges, leaving a gaping wound in the citadel’s defenses. Golden light still crackled in the air, residual energy from whatever ungodly power had been unleashed.

And at the forefront of the charge stood him.

The great traitor. The rebel. The Hero.

Dyeus, the sacred sword, gleamed with an intensity that made Jeremiah’s eyes water. Each swing of the blade released arcs of purifying light, cutting through the last remnants of resistance as if they were nothing. Surrounding Weiss, his soldiers moved with uncanny coordination, so swiftly that it was hard to believe they were mere mortals. Every strike landed with perfect precision, and every defense remained impenetrable.

It was as if he were leading an army of Champions. That was impossible, and yet it was happening.

The sight made Jeremiah’s blood run cold. This wasn’t just a rebellion anymore. It was something else. Something greater. Something beyond the realm of men.

Another explosion rocked the fortress, and Jeremiah barely had time to throw himself against the wall before chunks of stone came crashing down. The officers and soldiers behind him scrambled for cover, their shouts lost in the chaos. Dust filled the air, choking his lungs as he pushed himself upright.

Through the dust, he saw a blinding column of silver energy pierce the sky. The remaining mages within the citadel had unleashed their final, desperate spell—a war spell, something powerful enough to turn the tide of battle if it struck true.

[King’s Justice.]

The chant of the mages rose in unison, and the spell came crashing down like the wrath of a vengeful god. Jeremiah barely had time to register it before the world turned white.

He staggered, blinking back the spots. He felt the ink on his wrist pulse violently, burning as if it were being seared into his very soul. He clutched his arm, gasping, his heartbeat deafening in his ears. The pain was unbearable, his body screaming at him to move, to run, to flee. But his legs wouldn’t obey.

Through the blinding light, he saw a lone figure stand against the storm.

Weiss.

His sword was raised, glowing brighter than the heavens themselves when they Blessed their subjects. And then, he spoke a single word.

[Smite.]

The light exploded outward, engulfing everything in its path. The citadel, the mages, the soldiers, even the very air itself—it all disappeared in a wave of divine fury.

Jeremiah’s world shattered. He felt himself fall, felt the ground disappear beneath him. There was no pain, no sound, no sensation beyond the inferno of power that consumed everything around him.

And as his consciousness faded, the last thing he felt was the tattoo on his wrist unfurling and coming to life.

Chapter 161 - Walk In - Leonard 54

The air was choked with smoke and ash as Leonard pressed deeper into the crumbling citadel, with only the glow of his golden aura illuminating the path ahead. Around him, his soldiers moved as one, unwavering despite Pollus’s men's desperate resistance. The screams of the wounded and dying echoed through the stone corridors, blending with the clash of steel and the sharp crack of spellfire.

Overall, it was exactly what one would expect during a siege. We've been fortunate so far that our enemies have always been too weak and surprised to fight back. This has left us unprepared for this specific kind of hell.

Every step forward felt like walking through water. The Void’s corruption hung in the air, invisible yet insidious, seeping into the cracks of reality, making Leonard’s teeth clench. In response, the light within him burned brighter, acting as a beacon of defiance against the end-of-all-things.

“This place reeks of death,” muttered Captain Roan, barely audible over the chaos of battle. His eyes darted to Leonard, searching for reassurance. “Are we sure this is the way?”

Leonard didn’t look back. “Trust the plan,” he said simply. Elder Wei, who had somehow managed to catch up with them, snorted but didn’t say anything when he lifted an eyebrow.

The maze-like corridors of the citadel’s outer layers combined strategic brilliance with decaying grandeur. The narrow passages forced his men into tight formations, limiting their maneuverability, while flickering magical lights mounted on the walls cast long, shifting shadows that made every corner seem like a potential ambush.

A volley of arrows hissed through the air from somewhere ahead. Leonard raised his free hand, and a shimmering barrier of Light flared into existence. It caught the projectiles mid-flight and disintegrated them into harmless sparks. His soldiers pressed forward, their boots thundering against the stone.

“Keep the formations!” barked Gareth, who had taken charge of the left flank. “We’re not giving the bastards an inch!” The men roared in response and made short work of the latest wave of enemies.

Leonard spotted another group of defenders ahead—a mix of seasoned knights and frantic young recruits. They fought with the desperation of men who knew they were doomed but refused to give in. The knights formed tight shield walls, while mages hurled bolts of fire and ice from behind their ranks.

“For Hetnia! For the Kingdom!” one shouted before being silenced by an axe to the skull, courtesy of Elder Wei, who went to great pains to show that she wasn’t just a shaman.

Leonard smashed into their ranks, Dyeus blazing as he cut through the defenders. Each swing of the blade sent arcs of golden energy slicing through shields and armor alike. Yet, even as his men surged behind him, he couldn’t shake the growing unease in his chest. The whispers of the Void grew louder, and his experience told him that this level of presence couldn’t be achieved by merely using some of the corpses left behind during the Incursion to spread the taint.

I don’t want to believe Pollus was stupid enough to open a breach, but how else could this much filth be present?

You can save them all, one voice cooed, sickly sweet. If only you’d stop clinging to that borrowed Light and take what is yours by right.

Such a waste of potential, sneered another, darker and colder. You will fail them. You always fail because you don’t have the balls to do what you need to.

Leonard banished the voices with a surge of will, and the Light around him flared even brighter. However, the side effects of such extreme usage were starting to show. Some of his soldiers, even the most devout, hesitated to look at him directly, their eyes betraying unease. The golden radiance that shielded them from the Void’s influence was too brilliant, too alien. While many fell into fervent prayer, others trembled at the sight, disturbed by the impossible magnitude of his power.

The panic wasn’t limited to his own forces. The defenders were crumbling under the relentless assault, their formations breaking apart as Leonard and his elite forces cut through them. But desperation often bred ingenuity, and Leonard could see signs of a larger plan forming in the chaos.

Ahead, the corridor widened into a larger hall, its ceiling lined with intricate carvings that had once depicted scenes of royal triumph. Leonard could sense something off—an unnatural stillness that set his teeth on edge.

“Hold!” he commanded, raising a hand. His forces came to an abrupt stop, warily watching for an ambush.

The ground trembled beneath their feet.

“Trap!” shouted Gareth from the rear.

The ceiling above them groaned ominously before collapsing in a deafening roar. Chunks of stone the size of carriages plummeted to the ground, sending up a cloud of dust and debris that choked the air. Leonard threw up a barrier to shield his men, but the force of the collapse sent shockwaves rippling through the citadel.

As the dust started to settle, Leonard assessed the damage. The path back to the main forces was now blocked by a massive wall of rubble. The remaining defenders were nowhere to be seen, having retreated deeper into the citadel or been crushed to death.

“Damn it,” Gareth growled, coughing as he waved away the dust. “They’re willing to do anything to slow us.”

Leonard’s eyes narrowed as he sensed movement beyond the rubble. “They’re stalling for time.” He agreed.

A low, guttural moan echoed through the hall, followed by the shuffle of countless feet. The air grew colder, and the whispers of the Void grew louder.

Dozens of figures emerged from the shadows—men, women, and even children—their faces twisted in agony. Their eyes were pitch black, and their movements were jerky and disjointed, like puppets on frayed strings.

“Already too far gone,” Leonard murmured with pity.

The sight was enough to make even the most hardened soldier pause. These were not trained fighters or conscripts; they were civilians and slaves, twisted into abominations by the Void’s taint.

Leonard stepped forward, flaring his golden aura once more. “They’ve been turned against their will,” he rumbled with quiet fury. “Give them peace.”

The sight of the corrupted civilians made his men hesitate, and Leonard could taste their fear. For anyone who hadn’t spent years battling such abominations, the initial encounter with the Corrupted voidlings was a baptism by fire. Unfortunately, they didn’t have time to let them adjust.

“Focus!” he barked. “They’re already gone. All we can do now is release them from this torment.”

With a collective shout, his soldiers charged, their resolve hardening. The hall erupted into chaos as the two forces clashed. Leonard waded into the fray, cutting through the Void-touched. Each strike sent waves of Light rippling through the air, disintegrating the corruption and leaving nothing but ash in its wake.

The battle was brutal and time-consuming, and Leonard knew it was exactly what Pollus wanted. Every second spent fighting these abominations was a second that he could use to prepare.

The golden light of Leonard’s aura flickered and flared, illuminating the crumbling stone walls of the citadel as his forces pushed deeper into the labyrinthine corridors. Every step forward was met with resistance from the corrupted remnants of the citadel’s populace. It was a horrific sight that even the most seasoned of Leonard’s troops struggled to endure.

“Hold the formation!” Gareth roared. “Do not let them push you apart!”

The soldiers surged forward, pushing the tainted with their shields and swinging desperately. Leonard could see the conflict etched into their faces, a mix of determination and anguish. These were not knights or mages; they were farmers, blacksmiths, and merchants twisted into monstrosities by the Void’s taint. Their jerky movements and blackened eyes were a grotesque mockery of life.

“Push them back!” Elder Wei yelled, cleaving through a corrupted man who wore the clothes of a baker. The blow sent a spray of ash into the air, and the man next to her flinched, his knuckles whitening on his sword hilt.

“They were just civilians,” a younger soldier muttered, trembling as he stood over the disintegrating remains of a teenage boy, his corrupted features still half-recognizable.

“They’re too far gone," replied an older soldier whom Leonard recognized from the veterans of Alpar. “We’re saving what’s left of their humanity by putting them to rest.”

Wherever Leonard appeared, his presence acted as a balm to the fraying morale of his troops. “They didn’t choose this fate,” he growled as he swung. “But if we falter now, more will suffer. End their torment and give them back to the Light.”

With a roar, he swung Dyeus in a wide arc, releasing a radiant wave that swept through the corridor. The corrupted civilians caught in the path disintegrated instantly, their ashen remains floating to the ground like whispers of smoke. The soldiers, emboldened, pressed onward.

The next section of the citadel opened into a vast chamber with a high ceiling supported by ancient stone columns. Flickering runes crawled along the walls, filling the air with an oppressive energy.

A guttural growl echoed through the chamber. From the shadows emerged a hulking figure whose corrupted flesh rippled with unnatural power. It had once been a blacksmith, evident from the massive, twisted hammer it gripped in one oversized hand.

Once it appeared, the men staggered, their disintegration only prevented by Leonard’s buff.

“It’s a Scourge!” Gareth shouted, raising his spear as the creature lumbered forward, sending a lightning bolt at it. It carved a hole through its shoulder, which immediately closed up.

The men hesitated to face it, spreading out. Scourges were known as killing machines capable of annihilating entire Corps on their own. Those who killed one were given wealth and fame enough for a lifetime. Unfortunately, very few survived the attempt.

In this case, the Scourge was barely worth calling that. It was an abomination, an amalgam of several lesser voidlings into a greater one. It had no mind yet.

It could still match any Master.

Leonard immediately rushed to the front.

The creature lunged, swinging its hammer down with bone-crushing force. Leonard sidestepped effortlessly, flashing Dyeus upward to intercept. The clash of Light against Void sent a shockwave rippling through the chamber, knocking debris from the ceiling.

“You deserved better,” Leonard murmured as he thrust Dyeus into the creature’s chest, completely ignoring its aura’s devastating effects. The blade sank deep, and golden light erupted from the wound, consuming the abomination in a blinding flare. When the light faded, nothing remained but ash.

Leonard turned back to his men, his expression grave. “We need to move.”

The soldiers pushed forward, tearing through barricades and traps thanks to their enhanced abilities. Reinforced walls that would have taken hours to breach crumbled in seconds under the combined strength of a dozen men. Spells that once stalled armies were absorbed and nullified by Leonard’s shimmering barrier.

And yet, it wasn’t the physical obstacles that weighed on them—it was their opponents' faces. The corrupted civilians weren’t just enemies; they served as reminders of the kingdom’s cruelty and the lengths to which Pollus would go to maintain control.

“I can’t do this,” one man whispered, trembling as he stared at the twisted figure of an elderly woman advancing on him. Her skeletal hands reached out, her mouth forming words that no longer made sense. He froze, tears streaming down his face.

Elder Wei stepped in, cleaving through the woman in a single, merciful blow with her axe. She placed a hand on his shoulder with surprising gentleness. “She’s already gone, kid.”

The pace of their advance shifted abruptly as they reached a narrow corridor leading to the inner sanctum of the citadel. The air was thick with Void energy, and Leonard’s senses prickled with unease.

“Wait,” he said, raising a hand.

The ground beneath them trembled, and Leonard’s eyes narrowed. “It’s another trap. Fall back—”

Before he could finish, a hidden explosive rune activated, erupting the floor in a cascade of rubble. The blast was contained within a carefully constructed barrier, funneling the force upward and sealing the corridor behind them once more.

That made absolutely no sense, as the way forward was still open.

Which means he wants us to come to him. He must have finished his preparations.

Chapter 162 - Shadows of the Mind - Leonard 55

The corridor twisted like a serpent, its dark stone walls pulsating faintly as though alive. Tendrils of Void energy slithered along the floor and walls, making his lip curl in disgust.

Leonard led the way, with Dyeus glowing brightly in his hand. The golden light warred with the darkness, driving it back for several paces but never truly dispelling it. His men followed close behind, scanning every shadow for the next trap. They were battle-hardened warriors, but the unnerving atmosphere left even the most stalwart among them uneasy.

“Trust in the Light,” Leonard commanded. “Do not let the whispers take hold.”

The soldiers murmured their assent, but their faces betrayed the strain. The walls seemed to breathe, expanding and contracting in a slow, sick rhythm. Faint whispers echoed around them, seductive and persistent.

You can end this suffering. Let go. Take what is yours.

Leonard’s jaw tightened as he again ignored the voices. They had grown more insistent, and he knew why. The Void’s presence was a threat but also an opportunity. He had ascended during his battle with the incarnation, so why shouldn’t he have his apotheosis when facing it again?

“Sir,” one of the soldiers said nervously. “The walls are moving.”

Leonard turned and, indeed, saw that the Void energy was pooling in certain areas, forming bulges in the walls that pulsed like infected wounds.

“They are not really there,” Leonard said firmly. “If you falter, you’ll give the Void an opening.” Without an open Breach, it could only temporarily affect reality, and the only way it had through was to infiltrate living beings, consuming them in its unending hunger.

Thanks to his buff, his soldiers were safeguarded against infection, but that was only as long as they kept it out.

The woman nodded, gritting her teeth. Leonard noticed and allowed a small surge of Light from his aura to brush against her. The trembling ceased, and she inclined her head in thanks.

As they rounded a corner, the first attack came.

The Void assassins struck with incredible speed, emerging from the shadows like wraiths. Their weapons were jagged, dark blades that absorbed the light, leaving trails of darkness in their wake. Leonard reacted instantly, spinning with Dyeus in hand and unleashing a wave of holy power that illuminated the entire corridor. The attackers hissed, their forms briefly revealed as the light burned away their cloaks of shadow.

“Defend the flanks!” Leonard barked. He couldn’t eliminate the assassins in one strike without carving a path of destruction through the city behind him, which meant he needed his men to step up.

The soldiers closed ranks around him, shields locking together as the assassins darted among them, striking with unnatural agility. One dared to lunge at Leonard, its blade aimed at his throat, and he allowed it to reach him close despite being able to carve the man in two. The Void weapon disintegrated on contact, and Leonard’s follow-through decapitated the attacker, the pieces evaporating into ash before they could hit the ground.

“These things don’t fight fair!” Gareth growled, impaling an assassin with his crackling spear before shoving another one back with a grunt of effort.

“They’re not meant to,” Leonard replied coldly. He thrust his hand forward, unleashing a beam of light that pierced two more assassins and obliterated the chill they carried.

The battle was brutal, but the soldiers held their ground. The assassins fought with ruthless ferocity that would have seen them to victory in any other case, but they were no match for the elite forces, empowered as they were by Leonard’s blessing. Soon, the corridor was silent once more.

“Casualties?” Leonard asked.

“None, sir,” Gareth said, though his tone was uneasy. “But we can’t guarantee that’ll be the case if there are many more of those. They don’t tire like humans.”

“They never do,” Leonard said, his voice clipped. “The Void takes, corrupts, and reshapes. That is why we must stop this here. Pollus might believe he has control over the spread without a Breach, but that never lasts.”

The soldiers murmured their agreement, yet Leonard could see the unease in their eyes. They had watched him dispatch the assassins with terrifying precision, his movements almost inhuman in their efficiency. The Light he wielded was no longer merely a tool—it had become a force that made him seem less like a man and more like a god.

To some, that was a positive, but the more experienced men knew better than to believe their leader was infallible. Leonard found it somewhat worrying that Gareth seemed to belong to the first group. His old friend had become more erratic since returning from Volten. I can only hope it can wait until we are finished here.

After ensuring the corridor was secure, Leonard ordered a brief pause. His soldiers took the opportunity to catch their breath, though the oppressive atmosphere made rest fleeting.

Elder Wei approached him, tapping her staff softly against the ground. The orc shaman cut a striking figure, with her tall stature and tribal clothing. She stopped a few feet from Leonard, narrowing her eyes as she studied him.

“You’re scaring them, you know,” she grinned nastily, showing off yellowed teeth.

Leonard turned to her, unamused. “Fear is a natural reaction to the unknown.”

“It’s more than that,” Wei snickered. “They don’t see you as a man anymore. They see you as something beyond them. Some people can’t wait to find someone to put their trust in, but others are just as easily scared off.”

Leonard didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he looked back at his soldiers, who were tending to minor injuries and preparing to move again. He could see it in their eyes—the reverence, the awe, and the faint fear. It wasn’t new, but it had grown stronger with every battle.

“They’re alive because of that same power,” Leonard said finally.

Wei stepped closer. “You’re walking a dangerous path, Leonard Weiss. You’re not a god, no matter how much power you wield. If you let them forget that, you’ll lose them. And you’ll lose yourself.”

Leonard met her gaze, his expression unreadable. For a moment, the whispers grew louder, promising him freedom from the burden of mortality. He clenched his jaw and pushed them away.

“I know what I am,” he said quietly. “And I know what I’m not.”

Wei’s expression lost its nastiness. “Good. Keep it that way. They need a leader, not a god. Those aren’t around anymore for a reason.”

Leonard nodded, though he filed her words away for a later moment. He turned back to his soldiers, raising his voice to address them. “Rest time is over.”

The Void's corruption became more pronounced as the group pressed deeper into the citadel. The miasma pulsed faster, and the air felt heavier with every step.

Just one step, Hero. One step, and you can end this.

Leonard’s jaw tightened. His power was immense, but the limitations of the mortal world still bound it. If he embraced the Light fully, if he took that final step into divinity, he could erase the Void in an instant. He could free Hassel of its taint in one fell swoop.

But at what cost?

He shook his head, focusing on the path ahead. The whispers receded, though he knew they would return.

“We’re close,” Leonard said once he’d gotten himself under control.

Indeed, soon after, sunlight filtered through the distance, and after another minute of marching, they emerged from the depths that Pollus’ traps had cast them in.

"Prepare to rejoin the fight. I can still sense the taint, which means the inner citadel hasn’t been breached yet," he ordered, and he was proven right as a dreadful sight unveiled before them.

The Loyalists, entrenched within the inner defenses, fought with a ferocious tenacity that bordered on madness. They unleashed Void-enhanced artillery with devastating results, ripping through the Revolutionaries’ ranks with unholy force. Traps were triggered in rapid succession—spikes burst from the ground, enchanted nets fell from above, and walls of fire roared to life, cutting off retreat.

A deafening explosion tore through the air as a Void-forged cannonball struck the Revolutionaries’ front line. The blast hurled men and women like ragdolls, leaving a charred crater behind. The screams of the wounded mixed with the shouts of officers struggling to maintain order.

“Hold the line!” A captain bellowed, hurling a firebolt at an enemy emplacement. The spell struck true, obliterating the cannon with a burst of flames. “Regroup! We need to push forward!”

Despite his rallying cries, the tide seemed to shift against them. The Void-tainted artillery was unrelenting, and for every trap they dismantled, two more seemed to spring up. Morale wavered as soldiers hesitated, their gazes darting to Leonard for guidance.

“Leonard!” Gareth called urgently as he sidestepped a falling boulder. “We need to intervene!”

His troops were faltering, their once-impeccable formations unraveling under the relentless assault. Fear flickered in their eyes as doubt began to take hold. That had more to do with the Void’s side effects than out of genuine despair, but the result was the same nonetheless. They risked losing their bridgehead in the citadel at this rate.

Dyeus pulsed in his hand, growing brighter as if sensing his resolve. Leonard raised the blade high, allowing its glow to cut through the smoke and darkness. He stepped onto a shattered section of the wall, and raised his voice so that it could carry over the cacophony.

“Soldiers of the Revolution!” he roared. “Look around you! Look at what they had to resort to face us. They cling to the Void because they know we fight for something far greater than they could ever comprehend!”

The soldiers stilled, their attention snapping to him as his words reverberated through the battlefield. Even the Loyalists paused, their artillery briefly falling silent as they listened despite themselves.

“They fight for chains!” Leonard continued, blazing with inner light. “They fight for greed, for power, for a world where the many suffer so the few may feast. But we—” He pointed Dyeus toward the citadel, its light flaring like a second sun. “—we are freedom! We are justice! And we fight for the countless souls who will never know our names but will live free because of what we do here today!”

A wave of energy surged through the Revolutionaries, their hesitation dissolving as their leader’s words reignited their resolve. Leonard’s aura broadened, and the warmth of the Light caressed each soldier like a gentle hand, steadying them.

“We have come too far, bled too much, to falter now!” Leonard’s voice dropped, yet it still resonated with everyone. “Will you allow their lies, their cowardice, their cruelty to be the end of your story? Or will you rise and claim the future that belongs to all of us?”

A deafening roar erupted from the troops, ripping through the unnatural fear that had caught them. Soldiers slammed their weapons against their shields, the sound echoing like thunder. The Light around Leonard brightened, suffusing the army with renewed strength.

The Revolutionaries surged forward with a ferocity that surprised the Loyalists. The traps and Void artillery that had once seemed insurmountable were faced without fear. Soldiers worked in tandem, launching themselves at the enemy’s strongholds, safe in the knowledge that their Marshal was with them.

“Push through!” Gareth shouted, slicing through a barricade and jumping into a cluster of enemies. “No mercy for the Void!”

The Loyalists fought back with desperation, aware that their advantage was fading. A group of Void-corrupted knights charged from a side passage, their blackened armor shimmering with unnatural energy. Leonard confronted them head-on, barreling through their ranks with devastating effects.

Each swing of his holy blade left trails of Light that burned away the corruption, cleansing the air around him. One of the knights lunged at him, aiming at his heart. Leonard caught the blade with his gauntleted hand, crushing it effortlessly before driving Dyeus through the knight’s chest. The corruption evaporated with a shriek, leaving behind only a pile of ash.

“Grand Marshal!” one of his officers called, pointing to a series of reinforced gates ahead. “They’re falling back to the inner keep!”

Leonard nodded, his expression grim. “Good. Let them concentrate their forces. It will make them easier to break.”

As they approached the gates, another barrage of Void artillery rained down upon them. Leonard raised his free hand, a golden barrier snapping into place just in time to intercept the attack. The ground shook with the impact, but the Light held firm.

“They’re throwing everything they have left at us,” Gareth muttered, his gaze fixed on the gates. “They’re scared.”

“They should be,” Leonard replied, his tone cold. “They chose this path, and now they’ll face its consequences.”

The Revolutionaries pressed forward, their momentum unstoppable. As they reached the gates, Leonard stepped to the forefront. He raised Dyeus, the blade humming with power as he gathered his strength.

“Be cleansed,” he murmured in prayer.

Chapter 163 - Believe - Gareth 11

Gareth had fought many battles since the campaign began, but none felt as intense as this one. There was a purpose here that went beyond merely capturing the citadel. Hassel was already theirs, and whatever desperate effort Count Pollus had prepared would ultimately fail.

No, that wasn’t the reason he felt this way. Today, the world saw what belief in Him is capable of.

The revolutionaries surged into the inner fortress with relentless determination, carving through the remaining defenders like a storm crashing through fragile trees. Gareth raced alongside them, his spear crackling with energy. Each thrust and strike was driven by the lingering echoes of the prayer he had recited earlier. The sensation of power hummed through his body, coursing through his limbs like flesh transformed into lightning. He had experienced something divine when he helped dismantle the blood wards, and now he sought that feeling once more.

The fortress halls formed a maze of stone corridors and gilded chambers. The walls pulsed with the remnants of corrupted magic, flickering a sickly black where the Void had seeped too deep to be cleansed by Leonard’s mere presence. Nobles shrieked as the revolutionaries burst in, scattering like frightened doves. Many tried to flee deeper into the fortress, while others dropped to their knees, begging for mercy.

One man, wearing brocade robes embroidered with a baronial sigil, grasped Gareth’s cloak as he walked by. “Please! I had no choice! The Count forced us to stay!”

Gareth adjusted his grip on the spear. He glanced down at the noble, noticing the rings on his fingers and the soft hands that had never held a weapon. This man had dined in luxury while the people outside his walls starved. Had he lifted a finger to help them? Or had he simply indulged in the fruits of others’ suffering? Gareth remembered the dozens of dead slaves that had been found in the Griffin Knights’ barracks, their throats slit to deny the revolution any advantage. He thought of the children left to die when the nobles retreated into the citadel without them. He thought of the countless civilians forced into the Void’s embrace just to give these sacks of filth an extra hour to prepare.

Leonard’s voice echoed his own thoughts. "Spare the children. The others made their choice.”

The man stared at him in horror, desperately trying to find an ounce of pity to cling to. Gareth had none. He didn’t bother using his mana; lightning would kill the noble too quickly. Instead, he drove his spear down, piercing the bowels.

“You will die a painful death. May the Light’s embrace cleanse your soul of whatever makes you, you.” With that, he turned away, indifferent to the agonized gurgling he left behind.

Room after room, Gareth and his unit stormed through, cutting down the last lines of resistance. Whenever they encountered remaining Loyalist soldiers, they fought with a reckless fervor, knowing that surrender was not an option. Lightning surged around Gareth’s form as he moved through them like a force of nature, leaving trails of golden sparks in his wake. The power came more easily now. It responded to him, as if the element itself acknowledged his determination.

He could feel a greater power slowly suffusing him. It filled a part of him that had been empty since his exile, and that nothing—not even great victories and achievements—could fill.

His lips moved almost unconsciously. Initially, he recited the same prayers he had always uttered before battle—invocations to the Light to guide his strikes, protect his allies, and burn away the wicked. But the words began to shift, becoming something else.

“Guide me, Light of the Revolution,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. His next strike took down three men at once, their bodies convulsing as golden arcs danced between them.

The soldiers around him took notice. He saw the flicker of awe in their eyes, the way they glanced between him and his victims, and their faith reflected in their expressions. When he whispered again, “Praise the Hero,” a few echoed the words back.

One of the men beside him, a veteran with a scarred face and a missing ear, caught his breath as a faint shimmer of golden light flickered around Gareth. “The Light is answering your prayer.”

Gareth felt it too—a warmth coiling in his chest, deeper than magic, more absolute than any spell. He grinned and charged ahead, his soldiers following suit and picking up the chant. It was quiet at first, but as the battle raged on, the words grew louder, forming a low chorus rolling through the corridors.

“Praise Him.”

The effect was immediate. Golden light flickered around them, subtle but undeniably present. Their weapons moved swifter, and their strikes hit harder. Gareth no longer needed to reach for the power—it came to him willingly and eagerly.

The nobles who had not fled to the deepest parts of the fortress now cowered before them, pressed against marble pillars and velvet curtains that offered no protection from judgment. A woman in a gown of silver and blue lifted her chin defiantly. “You think you’re better than us? You think the world will be kinder under your rule?”

One of Gareth’s soldiers—Hector—stepped forward and drove his sword through her stomach. She gasped, her fine silk dress staining red as she crumpled to the floor.

Hector spat. “I think you had your chance to atone for your mistakes and threw it away.”

Another noble, an older man with a wine-stained tunic, clawed at Gareth’s arm. “Please, I have grandchildren—”

“Where?” Gareth asked coldly.

The man faltered. “They—they were sent ahead, with the first group that left.”

“So they are safe.” Gareth wrenched his arm away and stepped past the man. The revolutionary soldier behind him did not.

The slaughter continued, but Gareth hardly noticed. His focus was elsewhere, drawn to the presence he felt ahead.

Leonard was close now. The Hero had taken another group to ensure the fortress was truly empty of hidden forces before they all converged on the throne room, where they expected Pollus to be.

The revolutionaries pressed on, clearing the last barricades and subduing the final stragglers. The deeper they went, the louder the whispers in Gareth’s mind grew. He welcomed them, embraced them, and echoed them aloud, the prayer becoming more distinct.

“Praise the Hero. Praise Him.”

It felt right.

It felt true.

Gareth barely had time to register the ambush before a wave of fire and raw arcane energy surged toward him and his men. He watched as the spells streaked through the air like meteors, each one a killing blow designed to eliminate them in a single strike. The air crackled with magical intensity, and the sheer force of the assault warped reality.

Yet he did not falter.

As the deadly barrage descended, something inside him snapped—not in fear, but in defiance. His vision narrowed, and a deep, electric hum filled his ears, drowning out the panicked cries of his men. The storm within him surged forth. Lightning crackled along his limbs, dancing like living veins of light, and his entire body trembled with raw power.

A blinding blue-white arc of lightning erupted from his form, colliding with the incoming spells. Fire twisted, ice shattered, and force waves dissipated against the sheer, overwhelming strength of his will. The impact sent shockwaves through the corridor, cracking the stone walls and sending debris flying into the air. But Gareth remained unmoved.

His breath came heavy, but his heart was calm—his trust in the cause had transcended mere belief. It was no longer just faith; it was his identity, his purpose. The Revolution wasn’t something he fought for. It was something he was.

Through the fading haze, the nobles appeared—men and women dressed in lavish robes of deep blues, golds, and crimsons, their faces contorted in disbelief and fury. The eldest among them, a man with silver-threaded hair and a ceremonial staff, took an involuntary step back. His voice quaked as he shouted, “That was enough power to level a fortress! You should be dead!”

Gareth didn’t answer with words. His actions were enough.

He surged forward faster than he had expected. The very air seemed to bend around him as he closed the distance in a blur of crackling energy. A noble raised his hand to cast another spell—but Gareth didn’t let him finish. He drove his spear clean through the man’s enchanted doublet with a single, thunderous strike. The noble’s eyes widened, a final spell flickering on his lips before he collapsed.

Lightning erupted from Gareth’s body, arcing from one enemy to the next. One woman tried to shield herself with a glowing blue barrier, but the instant the current touched it, her defenses shattered like glass. She screamed as raw energy surged through her form, and she dropped lifelessly to the ground, charred.

The nobles were not just mages; some wielded swords, enhancing their bodies with magic in hopes of confronting Gareth in close combat. They failed. A younger nobleman, brandishing a glowing rapier, lunged with impressive speed. Yet Gareth was quicker. He sidestepped, seized the noble’s arm, and broke it with a sharp twist. Before the man could utter a cry, a bolt of lightning struck directly into his chest, stopping his heart instantly.

Another man shrieked, raising both hands as violet energy coalesced between his fingers. A death curse—an ancient spell meant to consume the target’s soul. Gareth saw it forming, saw the flicker of desperation in the man’s eyes—he knew that merely casting such magic would mean his own end, and yet his hatred of the revolution was such that he didn’t care as long as he could prolong the world’s suffering.

But Gareth felt no fear. Only faith.

Before the curse could be unleashed, he struck the ground with his spear, releasing a violent pulse of electricity. The stone cracked, the air vibrated, and the noble was thrown back like a ragdoll. He slammed into the wall, convulsing as arcs of lightning burned through him. The ancient curse, interrupted halfway, turned on its caster, and the man slowly crumbled into ash, fully conscious of the horror he had inflicted upon himself.

The last of the nobles stared at him, their faces contorted in horror.

“No,” one whispered, her voice trembling. “You can’t kill us. We are valuable prisoners! Our lands need us!”

Gareth took another step forward, and they recoiled as if he were death itself approaching.

“To stand against the Revolution,” he said, calm but with thunder rumbling in his chest, “is to stand against justice, against the Light itself.” He leveled his spear at them. “You chose this.”

With that, he moved.

The fight didn’t last much longer. Gareth and his men tore through the remaining nobles with unrelenting force, his spear a blur of golden light and crackling death. Some tried to flee, but the revolutionaries cut them down before they could escape. Others fell to their knees, begging for mercy, but Gareth felt nothing for them. The time for mercy had passed long ago.

By the time the last body hit the ground, Gareth was painted in blood, his chest rising and falling with deep, steady breaths. The scent of ozone and burnt flesh filled the air, and the corridor flickered with the afterglow of lingering electricity. His men stood behind him, silent, awestruck.

One of them stepped forward hesitantly. “General…” she started, but whatever she had meant to say died on her tongue. She simply looked at him, eyes full of something between reverence and fear.

Gareth slowly turned to face his soldiers. Their expressions were clear. They had felt something.

He exhaled and tightened his grip on his spear. The storm within him had not faded. If anything, it had only grown stronger.

“Our path is clear,” he said simply. “The Hero awaits us at the heart of the citadel.”

With that, he turned and strode forward. Those who still had questions would need to find answers on their own.

Gareth had his.

Chapter 164 - If You Know it's a Trap, is It Still One? - Leonard 56

Leonard stalked through the inner fortress’ corridors with a singular purpose: to burn away the taint of the Void. Every time he encountered a group of corrupted men, he showed his mercy by eradicating them from existence. When that whispering darkness melded with the environment, he didn’t hesitate to remove the offending infrastructure.

Behind him, his elite warriors followed in disciplined silence, their reverence for him growing with every victory. The tug on his soul—the weight of prayers—pressed against his mind, each whispered supplication adding to the mantle they expected him to bear.

He ignored it. His attention was concentrated on something else.

The Void had left its mark deeply here. He could sense it pulsing beneath the stones, like a wound that wouldn’t heal. Yet, no Breach had opened. He would have known right away if one had. That left only one other possibility—something had been used within these walls to intentionally spread the corruption. The question was, what? And how deeply had it infiltrated Hassel’s foundations?

I would hate to eradicate the entire city, but I will do it if it comes to it.

His gaze shifted to the bodies strewn across the halls. Loyalist soldiers, corrupted beyond redemption, lay in smoldering heaps where his men had felled them. Black veins, now inert, marred their faces. Yet the nobles—those cowards hiding behind their ranks—had largely remained unscathed. Pollus had wielded the Void not as the indiscriminate primordial force it was, but as a precise instrument. That distinction did not absolve him of his crimes, but it meant the source of this corruption was still hidden.

I need to know how this happened and how to stop it from ever happening again.

A distant explosion rumbled through the fortress, shaking the stone beneath his feet. The battle still raged beyond these halls, but Leonard sensed the tide turning in his favor. As he moved deeper, he felt more soldiers channel their faith into him—not just a passive belief but an active force, as if offering their very souls. He could have pushed it away, severed the tether before it changed them all—but doing so now would cost lives. They were drawing power from him, and the battle demanded that power. He gritted his teeth, vowing to deal with the consequences later.

He turned a corner, and there, emerging from a separate corridor, was Gareth.

Behind him, his squad of elite soldiers trailed closely, each surprisingly unharmed, just like his own men. More than anything, that reassured him that he was making the right choice. Yes, he would have to contend with Light-drunk soldiers once this was over, but that was preferable to letting their souls be consumed by the insatiable maw of the Void, from which he wouldn’t be able to retrieve them.

That was a mistake he’d made for the last time with Belinda.

However, what struck Leonard the most was their reaction to his presence. Their postures straightened, and their gazes lowered slightly—not out of fear, but in reverence. Some whispered prayers under their breath, and a faint glimmer of golden energy flickered in their eyes. Gareth was no different; his soul burned with fervor as he met Leonard’s gaze, as if he were seeing something greater than just a man before him.

Leonard didn’t address it despite the grimace that wanted to twist his lips. Now was not the time.

Instead, he turned toward the great Cold Iron doors that loomed ahead, the final barrier between them and the main hall where Pollus awaited. Cold Iron was the only substance that completely resisted magic—a defense that had been the choice of the richest nobles for centuries, capable of warding off both the arcane and the divine. It now served as the last wall separating him from the end of this war.

Gareth strode up beside him. “He must be waiting for us.”

Leonard nodded. “Then we won’t keep him.”

The soldiers behind them tensed. The air was thick with anticipation. This was the final battle, the culmination of an incredible campaign. Although the war was not over, and even if Treon was likely under siege at that very moment, victory here would signal the completion of their conquest of Hetnia. This was something that no one present but Leonard had thought possible during Alpar’s rebellion.

And yet, here they were.

The cold iron gates blocking the entrance to the main hall loomed before him, towering slabs of metal so dense they could resist everything from arcane spells to holy might. They had been constructed to withstand sieges, with the walls on either side reinforced by protective runes that had stood the test of time, designed to keep even the most powerful enemies at bay.

But nothing forged by men could stop Leonard now. Though he knew the Cold Iron was technically capable of withstanding his own power, there was a conceptual weight to everything he did that it couldn’t interface with.

His soldiers stood behind him in tense silence, holding their breath as they waited to see what he would do this time. They had witnessed him perform feats beyond mortal comprehension, and despite the legendary resilience of Cold Iron known to them, they fully expected him to overcome it.

More than anything Leonard could do at that moment, this was what would enable him to break it. Actions taken by divinities—no matter how rarely they manifested in the material world—created ripples and changed reality. Leonard might not be a god, but he was the closest thing to it that a human could be. His men believed in him so strongly that it never crossed their minds that he could fail here. He just needed to leverage that belief.

Leonard lifted Dyeus, the holy blade humming with contained fury, and invoked the Light with a voice that shook the very air.

“By the will of the heavens, by the wrath of the righteous—BE GONE!”

He swung.

Dyeus erupted with a golden arc of sheer annihilation, striking the gates with such force that the world turned white for an instant. A sound like a thunderclap split the air, followed by a deep, groaning wail as the very foundations of the citadel trembled. The runes carved next to the iron flared desperately, trying to resist, but they shattered like glass beneath the weight of his might.

The Cold Iron crumpled like paper, exploding inward in a storm of molten debris and pulverized stone. Dust and smoke billowed outward, the shockwave blasting back against the revolutionaries as the very walls of the corridor cracked. Gareth and the others instinctively raised their arms to shield their faces, but Leonard merely strode forward, unbothered, parting the dust with his golden aura.

As the haze cleared, the sight that greeted them was…unexpected.

The vast expanse of the main hall loomed before them, eerily silent. This grand chamber, which should have been filled with noble officers, panicked retainers, and remnants of the old regime, now stood nearly empty. The banners of the Kingdom of Haylich still hung above, untouched by the battle raging outside. The long banquet tables, typically used for strategy meetings and war councils, lay abandoned. Only the faint flickering of torchlight illuminated the shadows clinging to the pillars and vaulted ceilings.

And at the center of it all, only three figures remained.

The first, as expected, was Count Pollus.

The old general stood tall, clad in armor of gleaming black steel etched with silver inlays. The enchantments woven into the plates hummed with power, crackling faintly at the edges, responding to the magic density in the air. His weathered face, lined with age and experience, remained as unreadable as ever, yet his stance conveyed a sense of resolve. He held no illusions of victory—only that this final stand would be one worthy of history.

The second figure was a rat-faced man, unfamiliar to Leonard, but the moment he laid eyes on him, his senses recoiled.

The man’s very soul was tainted.

Leonard had encountered enough creatures of darkness to recognize one when he saw it. This was no simple noble or warlock dabbling in forbidden arts—this man stank of the Void’s corruption. His yellowed eyes gleamed with an unsettling, knowing amusement, and the way he stood—relaxed, hands folded as if he were merely observing—sent a flicker of disgust through Leonard’s core.

He did not doubt he could kill him, but the Void’s servants had an annoying habit of not caring about death. To them, it simply meant joining the infinite hunger. It was what they sought, whether they were conscious of it or not.

And then there was the last figure.

Slumped unconscious on the floor, wrists bound in silver shackles that gleamed faintly with runic suppression magic, was Jeremiah D’Ansan, Pollus’ adjutant.

Leonard’s eyes narrowed.

Jeremiah was breathing, his chest rising and falling steadily, but there was something off about the scene. Why was he here, restrained like a prisoner? He had been Pollus’ right hand, overseeing the citadel's internal security, yet now he lay discarded at the feet of the rat-faced man like an offering.

Pollus exhaled, rolling his shoulders as if preparing for battle. “Well,” he said at last, voice carrying across the silent hall. “I suppose it was only a matter of time.”

Leonard took another step forward, Gareth and the others fanning out behind him, weapons at the ready.

“You knew this would be the outcome,” Leonard said. His voice was not cruel, not mocking—simply stating a fact.

Pollus let out a brief, humorless chuckle. “Of course I did.” His gaze darted to the shattered entrance. “And I see you haven’t lost your flair for the dramatic.” He didn’t appear surprised that the mighty Cold Iron had failed, which more than anything told Leonard to be cautious. Either Pollus had given up, which seemed unlikely, or he believed he possessed something capable of killing someone who could do that to a legendary material.

Leonard tilted his head. “I find that overwhelming force saves time.”

Pollus’ lips quirked slightly, as if he could almost respect the sentiment. But whatever amusement he held vanished as his gaze hardened.

“The blood wards were supposed to buy us enough time for reinforcements,” he admitted. “I had my doubts they would hold, but I never expected you to tear through them so quickly.” His grip tightened on the hilt of his sword. “You never wavered, not once. That’s what makes you dangerous.”

Leonard remained impassive. “Surrender.”

Pollus snorted. “You already know the answer to that.”

“Then why drag this out?”

Pollus’ expression shifted, just slightly. “Because I am not the only piece in play.”

Leonard’s gaze flicked to the rat-faced man, who had yet to say a word.

The man grinned. It was a thin, oily smile that never quite reached his eyes. “So this is the great Hero of the Light,” he murmured. His voice was smooth, almost pleasant, but it had an underlying wrongness, like silk wrapped around broken glass.

Leonard frowned. “And you are?”

The man chuckled, running a finger along the edge of Jeremiah’s restraints. “A humble servant of greater designs.”

Leonard’s grip on Dyeus tightened. “Voidspawn?”

The rat-faced man’s grin widened. “Oh, no, no, my dear champion. I am something far worse.”

Pollus turned slightly, glancing at the man. “Enough talk.” His tone was sharp and commanding. “If you’re going to do it, then do it.”

Leonard tensed. Do what?

A sudden pulse of foul energy erupted from the rat-faced man, and before anyone could react, Jeremiah’s body convulsed violently on the ground. The restraints holding him shattered like brittle glass as arcs of unnatural energy crawled over his skin. A tattoo on his inner wrist lit up with dark light, exploding in ink lines that filled his whole body until nothing of his natural skin was visible.

Then, his eyes snapped open—and they burned with something inhuman.

Leonard hardly had time to identify the familiar, outrageously abhorrent presence before the room erupted into chaos.

Chapter 165 - Take the Plunge - Leonard 57

The moment Jeremiah’s eyes opened, the world cracked.

A wave of pure void energy erupted from his convulsing form, surging outward with the force of a tidal wave. The polished marble beneath him blackened and crumbled into dust, and the very air shuddered as if recoiling from his existence. Leonard barely had time to conjure a dome of incandescent golden light to shield his men before the darkness crashed into them.

Its sheer force rattled the entire fortress, even as it parted before his will.

This wasn’t ordinary Void corruption. This wasn’t the slow, creeping taint that rotted away minds and bodies over weeks, nor was it the chaotic storms of the Incursion that he had fought so long ago. This was deliberate. Concentrated. Something designed to do one thing—consume.

For a moment, all Leonard could hear was the roar of the Void. A thousand whispered voices screamed at him in a discordant chorus, scratching at his mind with promises.

Come home.

There is peace in surrender.

You could be so much more.

End the pain.

Leonard almost laughed. His own psyche was much more insidious than this. “Begone.” He pushed, expanding his aura of Light, and the whispers dissolved into static.

Even shielded by his buff, his men still staggered from the aftershocks of the attack but remained unscathed. The Void could try to worm its way into them, but his power would hold it at bay. He had managed the same with far less at his disposal.

If Pollus thinks he can overwhelm me with this much, he’s sorely mistaken. I was a whole rank weaker when I led the kingdom’s armies and had to protect them from entire fields worth of voidlings.

Then, the entity that had once been Jeremiah rose.

His skin was gone—not burned or melted, but merely erased, as if he had never been meant to have it. What remained was a humanoid shape of pure blackness, an absence of existence standing in mockery of a man. The edges of his form shimmered and bled into the air, like ink dissolving in water, never completely stable, never truly whole.

And yet, he moved. Flexing his fingers. Rolling his shoulders. Testing.

Like a newborn creature trying on its new body for the first time.

Fascination rippled through the entity’s stance. It turned its head, though it had no face, tilting it as if examining itself. Its hand reached for its chest, fingers pressing against the formless void it had become.

“Interesting.” The voice that came was… wrong. Too many tones layered over each other, speaking in perfect unison, echoing in ways that should have been impossible. “I am still… here.”

The rat-faced man—now reduced to half a body, still clinging to life even as his lower half had dissolved—laughed in breathless delight. “Yes…! Yes! It worked!” He coughed, black ichor spilling from his lips, yet his mad joy never wavered. “A conscious body that can contain the Void without unraveling! A bridge between what was and what will be!”

Leonard’s instincts told him he had to end this now. The abomination had to die.

He strode forward, Dyeus blazing like a miniature sun, and swung.

The Light-forged blade carved a glowing arc through the darkness, moving too fast for the eye to track. Where it passed, the air itself shimmered, seared clean of the Void’s influence.

And yet.

The blade stopped. Not because it was blocked—but because there was nothing to hit.

The Void entity simply wasn’t there.

One moment, Jeremiah’s transformed body stood before him. The next, he had shifted, flickering like a mirage, standing several feet to the side—untouched.

Leonard exhaled sharply. “Of course.” Any voidling above the fourth tier could temporarily phase out of reality. He had hoped it would still be too weak from its birth, but it seemed he wasn’t that lucky.

The being clapped its hands together, slow and deliberate, mocking. It made no sound, of course. Unless it imposed its presence upon the world, it did not affect it. That meant lesser Light attacks wouldn’t hurt it.

“Unexpected,” it murmured, that layered voice reverberating unnaturally. “I expected pain. Resistance. But this body… adapts. I do not burn by being in your presence. I do not break so close to the Anathema.”

Leonard was already moving.

He launched forward, this time imbuing Dyeus with Smite, the full, undiluted wrath of the Light compressed into a single, devastating strike. A sun made into a blade. He brought it down with absolute force.

The ground split apart from the sheer magnitude of the power. The entire hall trembled, and light exploded outward in a shockwave that sent debris cascading into the air.

And still.

The Void danced around it, shifting like smoke on the wind, impossibly fast. Where a man should have been cleaved in two, there was only the faint distortion of reality—a trick of light and shadow, a thing that shouldn’t be.

Leonard had seen this before.

He had fought Voidspawn that could do the same—creatures that slithered in and out of existence, moving between the cracks of reality.

But this thing wasn’t a mindless monster. It was born from a man. It was thinking. Adapting.

Jeremiah D’Ansan’s mind was being used as wetware for its purposes. It was probably what allowed the creature such clarity of mind.

Leonard grimaced. This was dangerous. The longer Jeremiah’s mind existed in this form, the harder it would be to kill as it kept adapting. His personality and ego are gone, and nothing can be done to save him, but the least I can do is excise the rot festering in his body.

The Void was a hunger without end. The more the being acclimated, the closer it would come to a true Incarnation.

Leonard couldn’t allow that. It might mean the obliteration of Hassel and the loss of a significant chunk of his army. All simply because of how much power he’d need to bring to bear to kill it.

Behind him, Pollus hadn’t moved. The old general simply watched. His holy pendant was still protecting him, but his frown had turned grimmer. However desperate he was, Leonard would not forgive the man for his sins.

“Did you really sacrifice your adjutant?” Leonard asked, not taking his eyes off the entity.

Pollus’ expression barely flickered. “I do what I must for the kingdom.”

Leonard could hear a thousand thoughts buzzing behind that answer. No matter what justification he gives himself, this is not a level of depravity that can be hand waved away with mere pragmatism. He’s truly fallen off.

The entity tilted its head, as if considering something. “You,” it said, its voice a reverberating whisper. “Are Leonard Weiss.”

Leonard braced himself.

“You do not repulse me,” it mused, almost disappointed. “Your presence does not hurt me, though I am of the Void. And yet… you shine brighter than anything I have ever seen.”

It stepped forward, shifting, leaving no footprints, as though the world refused to hold it.

“You would be a fine contradiction,” it continued. “The Light’s greatest warrior. The Void’s favored prey. If I consume you, would I know what you are?”

Leonard exhaled.

Then, he raised Dyeus again, leveling it at the entity’s chest. “Try it.”

There was a pause. Then, the Void laughed.

The sound was… soft. Amused. Not mocking, not cruel. As though the challenge genuinely entertained it.

“Very well,” it whispered. “Let us see if the Light still burns bright enough for day to come.”

Then it lunged. Leonard moved to meet it. The world trembled as Light and Void clashed.

Leonard confronted the newborn Incarnation directly, Dyeus radiating golden light in great waves. Each swing of his sacred blade sent crescents crashing against the roiling darkness, while the entity, still exploring the limits of its new form, lashed out with void-forged talons that consumed the very air around them.

They moved faster than mortal eyes could track, streaks of brilliant gold and deep black tearing through the ruined hall. Each impact of their blows sent out shockwaves, shaking the citadel's foundations and reducing centuries-old stone to rubble. Yet Leonard restrained himself—held back—because if he truly cut loose, nothing would remain of the city or the people still trapped inside it.

The entity was resilient, adapting with every passing moment. Leonard had cut deep into its form more than once, yet each time, the void matter reformed, its essence refusing to be truly undone. He had fought such creatures before and knew their tricks and arrogance. The entity believed itself indestructible, as all its kind did before it reached its final shape.

That was its weakness.

Leonard adjusted his footwork, angling his next strike. The creature swiped at him, trying to consume his light with its clawed appendage, but he twisted just so, allowing it to overextend. With a fluid motion, he brought Dyeus up in a shining arc, forcing the Incarnation to leap upward, avoiding the blade at the last moment.

A mistake. Leonard had been waiting for this.

"[Smite.]"

A column of Light erupted from Dyeus, slamming into the airborne Incarnation. Its left side exploded outward, obliterated by the sheer force of the attack along a good third of the ceiling. The seething energy that had saturated the air recoiled as golden radiance scoured it away, momentarily cleansing the hall just as the sun shone through the new hole.

The Incarnation screamed, a sound like the wailing of the damned, and plummeted toward the ground, its form flickering and struggling to regenerate.

His victory was brief. Pollus moved the moment the creature fell.

Leonard had half a second to react before the Count lunged at him. A streak of black steel sliced through the space where Leonard had just been, narrowly missing him as he twisted away. Pollus didn’t hesitate; he pressed forward with another strike, forcing Leonard to parry.

Clang!

The impact sent a shudder through the floor even as Leonard remained unmoved. The weight behind Pollus’ attack was impressive, but that was to be expected. What caught Leonard off guard was the skill behind it.

Pollus was not merely strong—he was a Champion.

He flowed seamlessly from one attack to the next, his enchanted blade singing through the air and weaving a pattern of perfectly placed cuts and thrusts. Leonard deflected two, dodged another, and barely managed to angle his sword against the next. He was forced to take a step back despite being much stronger, as the old warrior pushed him hard.

Leonard gritted his teeth. Strength? He had more. Power? There was no contest. But pure technique? Pollus was better.

That gap resulted from the decades of effort the old man invested in honing his craft. No matter how monstrous Leonard's talent for wielding the Light was, he couldn’t catch up in just a few years. However, he didn’t need to match his technique; he only needed to overwhelm it.

Pollus lunged, sword flashing like black lightning, but Leonard met him head-on. Instead of dodging, he absorbed the strike against his bracer, ignoring the force and pushing forward. He slammed his shoulder into Pollus’ chest, sending the older man staggering backward. That moment of imbalance was enough.

Leonard struck with Dyeus. The count barely managed to block with his own sword, but the sheer power behind the blow sent him flying, skidding across the shattered stone.

Before Leonard could press his advantage, however, the screaming started.

The Incarnation—still weakened, still regenerating—was changing.

The rat-faced mage had crawled toward it, chanting in a tongue that should not exist. He reached out, grasping the flesh made of the Void, attempting to feed it power and restore its strength.

But the abomination did not need him.

One clawed hand plunged into his chest, and the man’s body arched in exultation and agony. His face twisted into something unnatural, a mask of bliss and horror as his soul was ripped from him, consumed utterly. He did not die screaming.

He laughed. And then he was gone.

The Incarnation rose once more. The wounds Leonard had inflicted were gone, restored by the twisted vitality of its stolen victim. Its power surged, and the hall grew darker, colder.

Leonard exhaled sharply. So be it. If he had to risk his men’s lives to eliminate the threat to all life, he would.

Chapter 166 - Do your Duty - Leonard 58

Leonard exhaled slowly, allowing the floodgates of his power to open just enough to remind the world why he was called the Hero of the Light.

The air around him shimmered, twisting as if reality itself struggled to contain the raw divine energy he channeled. The golden glow pouring from his body intensified, spilling across the cracked marble floors, licking at the walls and archways, erasing every trace of lingering darkness. The very air vibrated with an unbearable heat, not from fire, but from sheer, overwhelming radiance.

Pollus lunged, but Leonard barely glanced at him. With a flicker of movement faster than any mortal eye could follow, he pivoted and landed a devastating kick to Pollus's chest. The impact sent the old general hurtling across the room like a ragdoll, smashing into the distant stone wall with bone-crushing force. The wall cracked from the sheer impact, sending debris tumbling down onto his prone form. Pollus coughed, struggling to rise, but Leonard had no time to spare him. A spear of light materialized in his hand, and he threw it, pinning the man in place for later retrieval once he was finished.

He had bigger concerns.

The Incarnation had nearly reached his men.

Without hesitation, Leonard shot forward, his body a streak of radiant light as he intercepted the monster before it could sink its claws into the nearest revolutionaries. Dyeus flared with righteous fury, carving a deep, glowing gash through the creature’s midsection. The Incarnation let out a soundless howl, writhing against the power of the Light, flickering like a shadow caught under the blazing sun.

The earth cracked, and a wave of power burst from the fortress, dissipating against the distant walls of the citadel with a thunderous roar. Dozens perished in an instant, but Leonard paid no attention. These were lives he could restore once he finished here.

The battle erupted with renewed ferocity. The two clashed, sending shockwaves through the crumbling hall and shaking the entire citadel to its core. Chunks of stone broke free from the ceiling, crashing onto the hall in deafening bursts. Dust filled the air, yet the sheer brilliance of Leonard’s aura burned through it, preventing the darkness from taking hold.

“Fall back!” Gareth’s voice rang through the chaos. A massive chunk of masonry fell upon him, but with a swing of his lance he cracked it in half, letting it fall around him.

The revolutionaries, some still stunned by the sheer magnitude of power on display, hesitated. A few among them, those who had started to see Leonard as something more than just a man, stood frozen in rapturous awe. Others, those with steadier heads, had to physically pull them away.

Only a few remained behind, too intoxicated by the power they witnessed.

Leonard noted it, yet he didn’t have time to address it. He pressed his attack, keeping the Incarnation on the defensive, refusing to give it even a moment to regain its strength. He was relentless, cutting into the monstrosity’s ever-shifting form as soon as it regenerated. Each swing of Dyeus left behind trails of golden fire, holy embers that seared the entity’s essence.

The Incarnation fought back with equal ferocity, striving to consume the very essence of the world to sustain itself. Tendrils of ravenous void lashed out, grasping at the stone, the air, the very fabric of reality. Walls warped under its touch, and the floor buckled as space distorted unnaturally. However, Leonard had flooded the chamber with so much Light that there was nothing left for it to draw upon.

A screech emerged from its throat, raw and angry. Leonard knew it was a mere mimicry of life. The void did not feel anything but hunger.

Still, its movements became more erratic as it tried to force his hand. More than once, the budding Incarnation tried to overtake him and reach his men, correctly understanding they were his only weakness.

Leonard, however, knew that it would try it, and so he was there to meet its claws every time. As soon as its flesh touched Dyeus, it started smoking, unable to contain the pure holy power of the Sky Blade.

Denied its sustenance, it was forced into a corner. Trapped.

Leonard saw its movements change. It stilled, its body trembling unnaturally. Eerily, it twisted its form into something more human-like.

A face emerged from the formless dark. Young and afraid, Jeremiah D’ansan was forced back into the light—or rather, his image was. This Incarnation was a surprisingly good actor, for how short of a time it had spent on the material plane. The one Leonard had fought at the apex of the Incursion had years to settle, years to spread its taint into the world, and yet it had never tried to act as human as this one did.

The realization that the Void could adapt to changing circumstances wasn’t a pleasant one. He knew, of course, that this version of the Abomination was simply too young to believe it could win against him, too weak yet to dare face his Light, but that didn’t make the sight any less disquieting.

Jeremiah’s voice, fragile and desperate, echoed from within. “P-please… help me…”

Somewhere behind him, he heard one of his men gasp. It was a convincing scene, after all. Anyone who didn’t have the deep, intimate knowledge he did would believe it was the young man still, as the Light drove back the Incarnation.

Leonard did not believe its lie, but he allowed the farce, as it gave him the time he needed.

The Void had destroyed Jeremiah utterly. There was nothing left. No lingering soul, no spark of humanity waiting to be saved. This was a deception, a cruel mimicry designed to weaken his resolve.

It had underestimated him for the last time. Having already accounted for the possible deaths he would cause with his actions, Leonard was not interested in holding back anymore. It was time to end this.

Leonard’s voice was as cold as judgment itself. “You are a mockery of life.”

He raised Dyeus high, gathering his will, drawing upon the divine authority that had always lain just beneath the surface. The glow of his blade intensified until it was nearly impossible to look at directly. A hum filled the air, a song of righteousness, a dirge of inevitable doom.

The Incarnation flinched. Jeremiah’s face twisted in desperate fear, “No, please! You need to help me! It’s taking over again!”

Leonard did not hesitate.

“Heavenly Judgment.”

Light erupted in an explosion of raw power, a column of divine radiance spearing down from the heavens themselves. The citadel trembled under the weight of his fury, and the Incarnation’s wail of agony echoed through the collapsing hall as it was swallowed whole by the cleansing wrath of the Light.

The darkness screamed, clinging to existence as it twisted and flailed. The raw force of the void warped and recoiled, trying to slither into the cracks of reality and escape destruction. But Leonard would not allow it.

With a final roar, he thrust Dyeus into the very core of the being, the sacred blade acting as an anchor for the Light’s full judgment. Energy surged, brighter than the sun, consuming the last vestiges of the Incarnation’s form. For one fleeting moment, the air went still, time itself seemingly holding its breath as the darkness was burned away to nothing.

Then, reality snapped back, free and untainted once more.

The ruins of the great hall smoldered, the stone still glowing from the intensity of his divine power. The revolutionaries who had remained shielded their eyes, minds too overwhelmed to process what had happened.

Leonard stood alone amidst the wreckage, his armor blackened with soot, his blade still gleaming with the Light’s radiance. Slowly, he exhaled, releasing the last traces of power back into the world.

There was a massive hole in the ground where the Incarnation had been. It was a hundred feet deep, and if one looked up, they’d see an equally sized hole in the cloud cover above. Everything that had been there was simply erased from existence.

Leonard didn’t spare a glance at where the Abomination had been, knowing it had been excised from the world. Instead, he turned, stepping over what remained of the cracked marble floor, his boots echoing in the silent ruin of the hall. His gaze fixed on the last man standing.

Pollus, bloodied and battered, sat slumped against the wall where Leonard had sent him flying. A thin rivulet of blood ran down from the corner of his mouth, but there was no bitterness in his expression—no anger, no desperation. Only weary resignation.

Leonard stared for a long moment, before flexing his will. The spear that kept the old general pinned faded away, and blood gushed from the hole it left behind. “You have lost. Hassel is mine.”

Pollus groaned in pain. It took him a minute to regain his senses enough to process Leonard’s words, though he couldn’t heal his wounds. Such was the power of the Light that any foreign force was easily dismissed. He chuckled, the sound wet and strained. “I did my duty, then.”

Leonard frowned. “Your duty?”

The old general nodded weakly. “That is the difference between us, Weiss. You fight for what you think is justice, for what should be. I fight for duty, for what is. I gave everything to stop you. I held the line. I bought time for the Kingdom’s armies to rally. That… was my duty.”

Leonard’s jaw tightened. “So this was never about victory.” It was the logical explanation for the man’s actions, but he couldn’t deny he had hoped for something more. Given how desperately he had fought, Leonard had allowed himself to believe that Pollus would at least have a reason he truly believed in.

And maybe he does, and we’re simply too different for it to satisfy me. I suffered the kingdom’s customs for so long because I believed there was a more pressing danger, but would I have even known it was wrong if I had been born into it?

Leonard hoped he would. That slavery would have always been a blight to him, but he couldn’t be certain, and that thought made him grimace in annoyance.

Pollus let out a slow, shallow breath. “Hetnia was never worth the resources spent on keeping her. The King understood that. But he needed time—time to purge the army of those who might sympathize with your cause, and time to rally his supporters. This war was never about winning...only about delaying." Once again, this was conveyed as a simple matter of fact. Pollus was dying and would never escape the ruined hall alive, but he didn’t care. The man was satisfied with his service to a man who wouldn’t remember his name a year from now.

Leonard’s grip on his sword tightened. He looked at Pollus with disgust. “You sacrificed thousands, tens of thousands for nothing.”

Pollus’ tired eyes met his. “That’s war. Men die for causes greater than themselves. My cause was the stability of Haylich.”

A long silence stretched between them. A deep chasm separated them that couldn’t be bridged, even in this moment. They spoke freely, without the need for mummery, yet they couldn’t understand each other.

Finally, Leonard stepped closer. “Do you have any last words?”

Pollus shook his head. He did not beg. He did not curse. He simply closed his eyes, letting silence speak for him.

Leonard raised Dyeus.

The Light took him.

The revolution had won.

Chapter 167 - Sing a Song of Subterfuge - Sigurd 6

The scent of salt, decaying fish, and damp wood filled the air as Sigurd and Eleanor stepped onto the uneven planks of Treon’s lower docks.

This place was a far cry from the pristine infrastructure of the Revolutionary Navy’s holdings. Here in the upper docks, progress had only managed to clear away the most obvious dirt, leaving behind a haphazard network of patched stones and worn wooden piers that still needed restoration but were functional enough that the new government had deemed them a secondary issue—at least until the current emergency passed.

The riverwalk buzzed with the sounds of maritime life—waves slapping against hulls, the creak of wooden beams shifting with the tide, and the occasional squawk of a gull scavenging for scraps. All in all, it seemed a perfectly normal day.

Sigurd adjusted the frayed collar of his tunic, leaning heavily on the walking stick that completed his disguise as the father of a weary family seeking affordable fish. Eleanor, dressed in a rough woolen shawl, portrayed the role of his beleaguered wife with natural ease. Their supposed child—a bundle of rags clutched in Eleanor’s arms—enhanced the illusion, though they had to be mindful not to attract too much attention.

I doubt any of these people have the skills necessary to see through my song, but any real spy might be able to, and it’s them we need to hide from. No matter how much better we’ve both gotten, a cover takes just a little mistake to be blown.

Despite the looming siege, though, the atmosphere wasn’t too different from the usual. Fishermen shouted over each other to sell their catches, and dockworkers complained about late shipments.

Sigurd was relieved to find that the snippets of conversations he gathered from around them showed an underlying confidence in the Revolution’s ability to hold the city. Even those who feared for their jobs felt reassured by the government’s promise to support them during the siege. Still, there was tension beneath the surface—a wariness that told him these people weren’t ignorant of what could happen.

Sigurd, however, was not here for fish. His keen gaze flickered across the crowd, seeking the telltale signs of hidden dealings—furtive glances, tense shoulders, the subtle weight of concealed weapons. If it truly existed, a royalist cell would not be so brazen as to gather openly, but desperation made even the most careful people slip, and the time to act was about to end, as the wards would be raised in two days. Smugglers, spies, informants—they all had a language, a pattern of behavior that was impossible to erase completely, and Sigurd knew how to read it very well.

After their second sweep without any find, they stopped for lunch in a nearby tavern. They chose a booth that was hidden in a corner but still gave them a good view of the room. Predictably, it was as soon as they had sent their orders for hearty soup off with the waitress that they found their quarry.

“Do you see it?” Eleanor murmured under her breath.

Sigurd gave the subtlest of nods. Ahead, an aging fisherman was being questioned by a clerk whose presence felt out of place among the dockworkers. Oh, he had made sure to dress down, but even then the weave of his clothes was too fine, and he hadn’t been able to abandon the vanity of a hat, though at least he’d forgone a feather. That they were walking directly towards the stairs also meant they had some coin to pay for a private room. Not something fishermen splurge for.

The exchange was too stiff, too measured—business, certainly, but not the sort that involved fish. The old man’s hands twitched with nervous energy, while the clerk’s fingers curled around a small leather pouch, tapping against it in a rhythmic pattern.

They passed close enough to hear the fisherman’s grumbling. “It’ll be ready when it’s ready. Hard to get good product with the number of boats in the water.”

The clerk, a thin man with ink-stained fingers, adjusted his glasses, another telltale that he belonged to a wealthier social class. “The order is expected, and no delays will be tolerated. Our associates are already preparing the house. The dinner must be served with the freshest catch.”

A harmless conversation—if one did not know how to listen.

Sigurd did. He grasped the subtext immediately. In normal times, he’d have simply chalked it up to regular smuggling and left them alone, but these were not normal times, and the War Council had given him a precise mission. They knew someone was snooping around the patrol officers’ quarters, which meant they wanted to know when the navy did its sweeps of the Great Slitherer.

Normally, Lady Amelia's shadows would have done this kind of work, but apparently, they are all needed up north. I didn’t even know she had a limit with how omniscient she seems, but it’s good to know she’s still a mortal.

The likely goal was to smuggle soldiers into Treon before the wards were raised. The reinforcements for the royalists would be hidden among the crates and barrels that came in under the guise of legitimate trade, given that the fishermen had another two days before the wards came down, it would have to happen now.

A casual tug on Eleanor’s shawl signaled his intent. They needed to hear more. He stood up and feigned a stagger, lurching toward a nearby storage closet.

“Just a moment, dear,” he wheezed, pulling Eleanor close as if seeking privacy. She played along, pressing against the wooden bathroom door as he fiddled with the handle, positioning them close enough to listen.

Above them, on the second floor of the tavern overlooking the pier, hushed voices carried through the gaps in the warped floorboards.

“Three shipments confirmed, with more waiting for the signal. You won’t have to think about anything else after they touch the shores.”

A heavier voice scoffed. “It won’t be enough. Not unless they can breach the inner gate, and I’ve seen how much they’ve been reinforced.”

A moment of silence stretched. Then, the clerk’s voice again, colder this time. “That’s already being handled.”

Sigurd exchanged a glance with Eleanor. They had hit the jackpot.

He exhaled slowly, trying to piece together their next steps. They couldn’t act yet—not without more information. If the royalists had a plan to breach the inner gate, it meant they had contacts within Treon’s defenses. It signified treachery. They needed to identify who was compromised before they could make a move. Better if we can get information about the coming “shipment” too.

He shifted, letting his hand brush against Eleanor’s fingers in a subtle sign of readiness. Once the clerk’s business at the docks was concluded, they would need to track him down and discover where he went. If the Revolution wanted to survive the coming siege, they had to dismantle this operation before it could begin.

A bell tolled in the distance, signaling a shift change among the dockworkers. The crowd thickened as men moved to and from their stations, providing Sigurd and Eleanor with the perfect cover. With one last glance at the shadows above them, they melted into the flow of bodies.

I hate it when we miss lunch.

Sigurd and Eleanor navigated the shifting maze of alleys as dusk fell over Treon, following the spies. Thanks to months of relentless training, their steps were silent, and their presence concealed.

The discovery of the relic beneath the castle had changed everything. It allowed them to refine their abilities with accuracy beyond what Sigurd had thought possible. Their growth was no longer driven by intuition alone but by the precise guidance of the mirror—a privilege bestowed upon them by the Grand Marshal himself. No one could deny them access now, not even the War Council.

Though Eleanor was still an Expert, he could feel the threshold of the Master tier approaching. Her training had pushed her to the limits, and Sigurd knew it was only a matter of time before she stepped beyond them.

On the other hand, he was already a Master, but now his bardic magic enhanced his stealth in ways few could comprehend. He was a whisper in the wind, a fleeting thought in a paranoid mind, a melody that dissolved into the darkness.

The spies moved cautiously, taking winding paths and occasionally doubling back, but it wasn’t enough. Sigurd and Eleanor followed effortlessly, remaining unseen and unheard under the shroud of his [Silent Night].

However, when they reached the outskirts of the city, the landscape changed. Buildings became sparse, providing little cover. The spies quickened their pace, confident they had lost any pursuers. Eleanor tensed, understanding that moving in the open would be reckless, but Sigurd hummed softly before she could signal for retreat.

It was a simple tune, a melody of alley cats prowling through the night, drunkards staggering about, and orphans wandering around. But as the words left his lips, the shadows responded. Darkness curled around them like a living entity, cloaking them even as the moon cast its silver light. Under this veil, they pressed on, slipping through the open field unseen.

The trail led them to a warehouse—an old, crumbling structure that should have long been abandoned. Broken windows gaped like empty eye sockets, and the walls sagged under the moisture-heavy logs that passed for a ceiling. Despite its dilapidated condition, something about the place felt maintained, as though the rot itself was a disguise.

Eleanor attempted to move forward, but Sigurd caught her wrist. His senses, sharpened by both magic and experience, detected the subtle presence of hidden wards surrounding the structure.

“We’d be noticed the moment we step inside,” he murmured. “It’s warded. Go get a squadron from the Security Forces.”

Eleanor frowned but did not argue, as he was the expert when it came to magic. Instead, she turned and vanished back into the night. She would gather enough soldiers to turn this into a full-scale raid.

Sigurd settled in the shadows outside the warehouse, honing his senses. His bardic magic allowed him to attune to the vibrations in the air, and the murmurs of voices from within drifted toward him like an unseen current.

At least a dozen men gathered inside. Sigurd listened to their hushed discussion, unraveling their plan piece by piece.

Apparently, under cover of darkness the next evening, they would take to the river, disguising themselves as simple fishermen. However, their cargo wouldn’t be retrieved from the isthmus’s end, where most patrols would be watching. No, the soldiers waited beneath the water's surface in the middle of the river, using artifacts that allowed them to breathe underwater. They couldn’t cross the entire river, as that would anger the water spirits, but they could get close enough to be picked up without raising suspicion.

Sigurd’s brows furrowed. The complexity of the plan meant someone within Treon’s defenses had ensured that no patrols would notice the deception. His decision to involve only the Security Forces was the right one, then.

Just as the planning wound down, movement behind him made him turn. Eleanor had returned, and she wasn’t alone. A larger force than he had expected moved with her. And at their helm was Governor General Dortmund himself.

Sigurd raised a brow. “I didn’t realize this required your personal touch, General.”

Dortmund grinned, and for a moment the heavy lines of his face lifted, leaving him to look surprisingly boyish. “Even I need to relax now and then. Leading a proper raid seemed like a fine way to spend the evening.”

Sigurd chuckled, stepping aside as the men took their positions. He observed the soldiers spreading out from the shadows, efficiently surrounding the warehouse. Eleanor stood beside him, with her hand resting lightly on the hilt of her dagger.

“These aren’t just smugglers of convenience,” she murmured. “They have resources, artifacts—someone powerful is behind this.”

Sigurd nodded. “We need to take at least one alive.”

Dortmund turned back toward them. “We’ll strike on your signal, Sigurd. What do you need?”

Sigurd considered. A direct assault would flush their quarry out too quickly, forcing them to fight to the death or flee. A more surgical approach was required. He closed his eyes and listened again, feeling the flow of music through him. Words carried through the wood and stone, giving him one last crucial piece of information.

“Three of them will be leaving in the next five minutes,” he whispered. “If we get them alive, we might be able to take over their roles and deal with an entire squad of infiltrators tomorrow. We must prioritize them, and then we can strike.”

Dortmund’s grin widened. “A hunt it is, then.”

Eleanor tensed beside him, but she didn’t question the plan. The trap was laid, and as the enemy spies unwittingly stepped into it, Sigurd allowed himself the smallest, satisfied smile.

Chapter 168 - Whisper in the Night - Sigurd 7

The afternoon light filtered through the shattered windows of the warehouse, illuminating the aftermath of the previous night’s battle.

Broken crates, overturned barrels, and the lingering scent of blood filled the air. A few bodies remained where they had fallen, sprawled across the floor, their expressions frozen in shock and pain. They would be removed and buried properly in due time, but they had another purpose to fulfill for now.

A day or two aren’t enough for miasma to build up. I did hear there was some trouble with a necromancer in Volten, but it’s already rare enough for one that strong to appear. We just need to make sure a priest comes to bless the grounds once we are done.

Sigurd paced through the wreckage, committing every detail of the fallen spies’ faces to memory. The cuts and bruises didn’t help, and the paleness of death changed some features, but he had the benefit of having spied on them for more than an hour, so it was just a matter of matching the faces he remembered with what he saw now.

Eleanor knelt beside one of the corpses, that of a young man, brushing her fingers against the hilt of a fallen dagger. Sigurd knew she had been the one to deliver the final blow. It’s always difficult for children to confront how harsh reality can be. Eleanor is more mature than most, but she’s still young, and her contributions to the revolution have been limited to the less brutal side of the business.

He hadn’t tried to shield her from the ugliness. She had chosen this path, and he didn’t have the right to contest her decision.

“I hoped we got them all last time so this wouldn’t need to happen again,” she murmured.

Sigurd shook his head, testing the strings of his fiddle. “There will always be someone ready to make trouble. That’s the thing with revolutions. Your enemies aren’t likely to play fair when everything they know is on the line.”

Images of last night’s battle flashed in his mind. Their stealthy approach to the warehouse and the startled cries of the spies as they realized they had been ambushed when the wards went off. The SF closing every exit and boxing the enemy in. Eleanor weaving through the chaos, wielding her daggers with much greater ability than she had been capable of even a month ago. Dortmund cutting down a desperate foe without blinking, looking more relaxed than he had in months. And Sigurd himself, standing in the midst of the turmoil, twisting reality with his song, causing enemies to see phantoms and stumble into deadly blows.

With the memories still fresh, he turned his gaze back to the task at hand. Their disguises had to be perfect.

“We’re ready, Bard,” one of the SF officers muttered, adjusting his grip on his belt, which concealed a short sword. “Do your magic.”

Sigurd set his fiddle to his chin and drew his bow across the strings. Soon, the first few notes reverberated in the cavernous space. The melody was slow at first, creeping through the air like mist. Then he began to sing:

“Shadows shifting, faces fade,

Masks of men in twilight made.

Echoed whispers, borrowed breath,

Wear their skin and steal their step.”

The air around them shimmered like the heat rising from summer-baked cobblestones. Eleanor exhaled sharply as her skin prickled, the sensation of change slithering through her veins. The others stiffened, mutely checking out each other as their features twisted and realigned. Their bones adjusted, their muscles reshaped, and their mannerisms warped under Sigurd’s song.

When the final note faded, the transformation was complete.

Pleased with his work, he watched as Eleanor reached up and touched her face, feeling a nose that wasn’t hers, lips that were slightly too thin, and the curve of a jaw she had never owned. One of the soldiers turned his hands over, examining unfamiliar scars on his palms. Another swore under his breath, his voice cracking before he cleared his throat and tried again. “Well,” he muttered, rubbing his newly acquired chin. “That was unpleasant.”

Another man grimaced. “I feel like I’ve been stretched out like old taffy.”

Eleanor smirked, eerily matching the expression of the woman Sigurd had killed the night before. “I’m sure you’ve never used this ability for nefarious deeds, right?”

Sigurd chuckled as his own voice shifting seamlessly to match the spy he had taken the guise of. “I’m a law abiding citizen. Now let’s not waste time. We have a meeting to attend.”

With their disguises in place, they stepped out of the warehouse and, after a walk through the fishing quarter, onto the pier, moving with the confidence of men who belonged. The sky had deepened into shades of orange and purple, casting a dim glow over the quiet docks. The air was thick with the scent of river water and damp wood, and the lapping of waves masked their footsteps as they made their way toward the boats the spies had prepared.

The three men they had spared the night before were waiting for them near the vessels. They leaned against the wooden railing, sharing a flask of something strong-smelling but not drinking beyond minuscule sips. They laughed raucously, and the racket ensured no one would think them different from regular fishermen.

As they approached, Sigurd inclined his head in greeting. “No trouble, I take it?” His modulated voice was a near-perfect imitation of the spy he had replaced. It always felt a bit eerie to change who he was, but he’d done it enough times by now that he didn’t have any tells, which was why he’d be the only one to speak unless absolutely necessary.

The tallest of the three, a man with a jagged scar across his cheek, snorted. “Trouble? From these rebel rats? They still think they got all of us with that purge last month.”

The second spy chuckled darkly. “Pathetic, really. You’d think they’d leave someone smarter in charge. A kid, an old woman, and a soldier are all that they left in Treon.”

Sigurd smiled, but it wasn’t a pleasant expression. Eleanor mirrored it, the cold amusement in her gaze sending a shiver down the spine of one of the soldiers behind them. The spies misinterpreted the expressions as shared cruelty and smirked in response.

“Come on,” the third man grunted, pushing off from the railing. “We should get moving before the current turns against us.”

After that, they climbed into the boats, the wood creaking beneath their weight. Sigurd took up the oars along with the others, pushing away from the dock.

The Great Slitherer lay in darkness, illuminated only by the faint glow of Treon’s distant lights. The city, receding against the horizon, cast a ghostly reflection on the water, trembling with the river’s currents. Sigurd and his companions sat in silence as their boat bobbed over the waves, with only the occasional splash of an oar disturbing the stillness. Even the real spies, men who had surely spent countless nights navigating these treacherous waters, remained tense with unease.

No matter that the ancient pact with the spirits remained active, everyone knew better than to trust the Great Slitherer. Still, their sailing went undisturbed.

This was weird because any fishing boat venturing these waters should be inspected by the decree of the governor general, yet no patrol ships came. No distant lanterns bobbed on the horizon, and no calls demanding identification echoed through the night. This side of the river was empty except for them.

Sigurd turned his head slightly, just enough to glance at the spies. They seemed unsurprised, though their grips on the wooden edges of the boat were still tight. Testing the waters, he let out a quiet chuckle. “You are all too tense,” he murmured, barely louder than the water lapping against the hull. “We have good people in the patrol offices. They know how to do their jobs.”

One of the men blinked, momentarily thrown by the comment. His fingers drummed idly against the edge of the boat. “I suppose that’s true,” he admitted after a pause. “The infiltrators from Duke Garva are very good. They’ve done this before.”

Sigurd tilted his head. “Oh?”

The spy nodded. “They were used in the Brander Republic a few years back. That was a harder job, but here, with the chaos of a new administration and the upheaval of war? It was almost too easy to slip them in.”

Sigurd let the words hang in the air, resisting the urge to ask for clarification. They’d been assured that Vicar Damien was on the hunt for these infiltrators, and he was content to leave the matter to the creepy priest.

Eleanor, however, seemed to think they could push more, and she leaned in slightly. “Sounds like overkill to me,” she commented dryly. “The rebels aren’t that good. You could’ve sent regular people, and they would have done the job.”

The spies hesitated. There was a palpable shift in their demeanor. One of them exhaled through his nose, eyes darting between Sigurd and Eleanor. “It was the Duke’s order,” he finally said, sounding as if that should be enough. “We need Treon back before they can fully consolidate their hold over Hetnia. The best were needed.”

That was all they were willing to say. Sigurd could feel them closing up, their gazes becoming more guarded. Any more questions would draw suspicion.

Just as the tension threatened to tighten, the lead spy raised a hand. “We’re here.”

The Great Slitherer’s delta was vast, stretching nearly two miles from shore to shore. The sky above was empty of stars, and its darkness reflected in the river’s churning waters. Occasionally, faint flickers of blue light shimmered beneath the surface—elemental spirits shifting in the current. Sigurd had no doubt they watched from below, aware of the boats skimming their domain.

It’s more surprising that the soldiers can get this far without incurring their wrath. But I suppose they, too, might have ancient artifacts of some kind. Haylich has had control of the river for centuries. It’d be weirder if they didn’t.

The boats drifted to a stop, and for a while, they remained there, waiting in silence. Then, without warning, a hand erupted from the black water, seizing the edge of the nearest boat.

A soldier, clad in soaked armor, wrenched himself free from the river’s grasp and tumbled over the side. The wooden boat rocked under the sudden weight, and the men instinctively reached out to steady it. The soldier didn’t bother acknowledging them; instead, he turned and extended his arm downward, pulling the next man aboard.

More and more soldiers surfaced, in a quiet, methodical process. There was no whispered relief, no sounds of exhaustion—only the steady movement of trained warriors filing onto the boats in a well-rehearsed maneuver.

Sigurd exchanged a glance with the lead spy, who frowned. There were more men than expected. The plan had been to retrieve a few dozen, but by the time the last soldier hauled himself aboard, the boats were filled nearly to capacity. If this were really a covert mission, they’d have a hard time sneaking all these men into the city. It’s a good thing we went for overkill.

The lead spy hesitantly voiced this concern. “We might be too noticeable like th—”

The words barely left his lips before a sharp slap echoed in the air. One of the soldiers struck him across the face, sending him staggering back. The force of it wasn’t enough to knock him over, but it silenced him instantly.

“You won’t question the Duke’s directives,” the soldier growled.

The spy clutched his cheek but nodded quickly, bowing his head. A quiet understanding passed through the group—no one else would say anything.

The tallest soldier among them, wearing a decorated chest plate that gleamed even in the faint moonlight, stood up. His gaze swept over the assembled men, cold and commanding. “We will make for the shore,” he announced. “I don’t want to hear a single whisper. Once we touch the ground, you are to send the boats back in the deep waters and let the currents destroy them.”

Sigurd nodded, falling into place like the others. His outward demeanor was one of strict obedience, but his mind worked furiously inside.

They’d been given the perfect opportunity.

As they began to row, he subtly adjusted the boats’ trajectory. It was a small change, barely noticeable, shifting them just slightly northward. Instead of heading straight for the fishing pier, they veered toward a more secluded section of the shore, where the ambush awaited.

If the spies noticed, they remained silent. Perhaps they were too focused on their orders or genuinely believed they were on the right track. Either way, their silence would be their last mistake.

Chapter 169 - Ask and Ye Shall Receive - Gerard 4

Gerard stood still in the thick shadows of the cove, keenly watching the approaching boats. As Governor General of Treon, he really shouldn’t take part in such a dangerous operation, but he’d always thought that the man who ordered his men into battle should be just as willing to join them.

And if I’m being completely honest, I’m bored to tears. This will be a good diversion from all the paperwork.

Around him, his men settled into position, armed with the best weapons and wearing the finest equipment he could provide. Technically, the Security Forces fell under Lady Neer’s authority, but since they were the only military unit Damien could verify had not been infiltrated, they were the ones he brought along, and he’d be damned if he led them into battle with inferior gear.

He could sense their tension, the coiled energy of warriors waiting for the perfect moment to strike. Although his own heartbeat was steady, the anticipation hummed beneath his skin like the taut string of a drawn bow. It’s been too long. A soldier shouldn’t go without a good battle for this long.

The plan was simple. As soon as the boats drifted close enough to shore, his concealed mages, hidden in the waters and among the reeds, would raise temporary wards, sealing the area. No one would be allowed to escape, and no outsiders would notice. If everything went as expected, the enemy soldiers would walk right into his net, their fates already sealed before they even touched land.

The wiser move would be to strike while the boats were still in the water. A decisive blast of magic and a coordinated attack from the shore would do the trick. But Gerard wasn’t prepared to risk his own men’s lives for the sake of expediency. No, he would let them land, let them believe their deception had worked, and only then would he close the trap.

He had changed, and he knew it. Months ago, he would have never even considered the possibility, but he had to admit that he had wondered if it would be worth attacking while they were still far from the shore. But he hadn’t fallen into temptation, and that was what mattered.

Damien, Lia, and even Amelia had made him into a different man. He wasn’t entirely sure if he resented them for it. He still thought back to his ‘talk’ with Amelia, the words she had forced him to consider, the truths he had been too rigid to acknowledge before. What was his role, truly?

He once believed that his strength alone, his unwavering commitment to what was right, was all he should aim for. But he knew better now. Leonard respected him, yes, but not because of his power. That wasn’t why he had been entrusted with Treon—several people in the city right now were stronger than him, so if that had been the criteria, he would have never been picked.

No, he was the Governor because Leonard thought he could grow into the role. And Gerard had no intention of squandering that opportunity.

He was close now—so close. His fourth Blessing might come any day, he knew. It was a frustrating thing, hovering on the edge of his reach, just waiting for the final push. Perhaps tonight would be that push.

A faint rustling behind him signaled movement. One of his lieutenants crept up beside him. “They’re getting close, sir,” the man whispered. “Everything is in place.”

Gerard nodded. “Keep the men hidden until they are inside the area. No movements from the beach until the wards go up. We will strike when the last of them steps onto the shore.”

The officer inclined his head and melted back into the shadows, relaying the orders through a series of silent gestures. Around the perimeter, Gerard’s soldiers adjusted their positions—some crouching lower in the underbrush, while others tightened their grips on bows or foci. The Mage Corps didn’t bother to acknowledge the minor changes.

The boats drifted closer.

Despite everything being planned meticulously, Gerard felt restless. He had positioned his men in layers, ensuring that no matter how many soldiers Garva sent, they would be funneled into a narrow kill zone. Once the wards were raised, there would be no retreat. His archers would unleash hell upon them from the high ground. His best fighters would close in from the sides. His mages would cast spells to prevent any counterattack from forming.

It was perfect. Efficient. Ruthless.

And yet… Something nagged at him. He was sure he hadn’t forgotten anything, but a last-second change was always possible in such operations.

The water lapped against the hulls of the approaching boats. The soldiers aboard them sat in eerie silence, disciplined and expectant.

Gerard raised a hand, waiting for a beat. Once he was sure the boats had all passed through the invisible line, he gave the signal.

Subtle magic surged through the air a moment later as the concealed mages cast their spells. The wards snapped into place like invisible chains, locking the area in a shimmering, unbreakable trap.

The enemy was caught, though they didn’t know it yet.

But Gerard wasn’t done. He stepped forward, drawing his sword, feeling something shift inside him. Power coiled beneath his skin, and an undeniable force pressed at the edges of his senses. Was this it? The final push he had been waiting for? He exhaled sharply, steadying himself as the first enemy soldier set foot on the sand.

A cry of surprise went out before the first boat had even emptied, and Gerard muttered a curse. Whether they had someone who could cast sensory magic, they had simply seen a soldier hiding or something else, it didn’t matter. The enemy now knew they were under attack.

As his men rushed forward, he had to admit that the Garvans’ discipline was undeniable. They did not falter or fall to panic, merely picking up their weapons and attacking those who led them into the trap.

The first SF soldier disguised as a spy fell with a wet gurgle, as a black blade was driven straight through his throat before he could utter a single word of protest.

The others barely had time to react before the enemy turned on them, attacking with the intent to kill.

“Damn it,” Gerard muttered under his breath. The time for waiting was over.

“Attack!” he roared. For whatever reason, Garva’s soldiers suspected treachery and were taking it out on the men they should have considered their allies. There will be time to ask why after we capture a few.

Spells ignited the night, and streaks of fire and bolts of force rained down on the enemy. The air crackled with energy as the first wave of magic struck, knocking several soldiers off their feet and into the water. Archers released their arrows, the shafts whistling through the air before hitting their targets. The battlefield erupted into chaos.

But further down the line of boats, things were looking grim. The disguised SF were fighting back, but they were outnumbered, and their disguises were useless now that swords had been drawn. The enemy was too disciplined, and too quick in their response. For every Garvan soldier that fell, another of the SF men was struck down in turn. They would not last long.

Then, above the roar of battle, a voice rose in song.

Sigurd’s voice rang clear over the river. It was a song of defiance, strength, and unyielding will. As he sang, his men stood taller, their weary bodies surging with renewed energy. Their strikes landed harder, and their movements became faster. The tide shifted ever so slightly in their favor, allowing them to hold on just a bit longer.

Gerard wasted no time. He turned to his men at the shore. “Move the boats! Now!”

They sprang into action, pushing one of the prepared skiffs into the water. Gerard leaped onto it, gripping the railing as the oarsmen rowed with all their might. The skiff cut through the dark waters as the cold spray bit at his face. Behind him, the mages continued their assault, sending explosions of fire and arcs of lightning crashing into the enemy ranks. They held back their full strength, careful not to hit their men, but it was enough to disrupt the massacre.

The skiff closed the distance rapidly, but it wasn’t fast enough. Gerard’s eyes locked onto Sigurd and Eleanor, both of whom were locked in a desperate struggle against the enemy’s leader. The man was six and a half feet tall, but he moved as if he was half the size. It was even more surprising, given that he was wearing heavy armor.

With a swipe of his greatsword, he smashed one of Eleanor’s daggers to pieces and sent her stumbling back, forcing Sigurd to intercept the next strike just in time.

They would not hold out much longer. Gerard exhaled, and his body ignited with power.

“[Warrior’s Courage].” A silver aura surged around him as his muscles tightened and his resolve hardened.

“[Swift Steps].” The world slowed around him as his body accelerated faster than he could even think.

With a mighty push, Gerard jumped from the skiff, barely touching the water with his boots before he launched himself forward again. Five great bounds carried him through the distance in mere seconds. The enemy leader barely had time to turn before Gerard crashed into him, sending them both skidding across the deck.

The force of the impact stunned the enemy for a brief moment, and Gerard wasted no time. He was on him in an instant, pressing the advantage.

The Garvan leader grinned, rolling to his feet with great speed. “The Governor of Treon himself,” he mused with ill-concealed hunger. “I caught a big fish tonight. We might not even need the whole siege.”

Gerard wasn’t interested in banter. He lunged forward, aiming to decapitate the man and end the fight in one strike. The enemy barely managed to parry, buckling under the sheer force of the strike. But he recovered quickly, countering with a sharp thrust aimed at Gerard’s midsection.

Gerard sidestepped, twisting his body just enough to let the blade pass harmlessly by. He retaliated with a vicious downward strike, making full use of his speed. Sparks flew as steel clashed against steel, each impact ringing across the battlefield like a bell.

The enemy was skilled, too skilled for a run-of-the-mill Captain. He matched Gerard blow for blow, and his technique was refined enough to force Gerard to pull all the stops. But he wasn’t just fighting for himself; he was fighting for his city, his men, and the future he refused to let slip away.

He pressed harder, ignoring the dull ache in his limbs. Their battle moved across the deck, avoiding the nearby duels with ease and exchanging deadly attacks. At one point, Gerard’s blade carved into the enemy’s shoulder, drawing a grunt of pain. But the Garvan soldier refused to slow down.

And then, out of the corner of his eye, Gerard saw a second enemy soldier, knife in hand, creeping up behind him. He had no time to react, so he prepared to tank the hit.

But Eleanor was faster.

Her last dagger flew through the air, embedding itself deep in the would-be assassin’s throat. The man collapsed with a gurgle, his blade slipping from his grasp. Gerard barely had time to nod in thanks before pain erupted in his chest.

The enemy’s sword was sticking halfway through him.

Gerard gasped, going rigid as the cold steel bit deep. He locked eyes with his opponent, who grinned triumphantly, pressing the blade deeper. Blood dripped from Gerard’s lips, but his grip on his sword remained firm.

He pushed even more mana into his body with sheer willpower. His vision blurred, but his knees didn’t buckle.

“Long live the Revolution.” He mouthed through bloodstained teeth and head-butted the bastard.

The heavens blessed him for his devotion.

Chapter 170 - There is Another - Gerard 5

Pain seared through Gerard’s body, raw and impossible to escape from, as his opponent wrenched his sword free. The sharp steel sent another gush of blood spurting as it tore its way out, and he let out a deep, guttural moan, staggering slightly as warmth spilled down his torso. His vision blurred as the gravity of his injuries dragged him downward.

Then, the world exploded into light.

A magnificent column of radiance descended from the heavens, surrounding him in golden flames. It was blinding, searing, and divine. The battlefield fell silent as the immense presence of the Light sent ripples through the waters, pushing the enemy back and making him stumble. For a fleeting moment, time seemed to stand still.

Then, the transformation began.

The Light flooded him with power, weaving through Gerard’s broken flesh and sealing the wound shut as if it had never existed. Strength filled his body, burning away fatigue and weakness, and replacing it with something beyond what he had been. His muscles tightened, his senses sharpened to an unimaginable degree, and mana surged through him in waves, expanding his reserves several times what they were before.

Through it all, his thoughts crystallized into a single certainty.

He had been chosen for his role to serve as the bulwark of the Revolution.

Leonard had entrusted him with Treon not because of what he was but because of what he needed to become. The city could not fall. The Revolution could not fail. He had been chosen to hold the line, to be the immovable wall upon which the enemy’s tide would break.

And he would not fail the man whom the Light loved so clearly.

Gerard exhaled as the last rays of golden light faded, his breath coming in steady gasps. His hands clenched, and he felt the raw power rushing through his veins. He was stronger, more powerful. Better.

Meanwhile, the Blessing’s arrival had changed the battlefield.

He turned to face his enemy, who stood frozen, his eyes wide with something Gerard had not seen in them before.

He is afraid. He knows his end is near.

Gerard straightened, standing taller than he ever had. His voice was like thunder, shaking the air with his belief. “There will be no mercy for the enemies of the Revolution.”

Before the man could react, Gerard was upon him.

The distance between them vanished in a blink. His first strike smashed into the man’s side with bone-crushing force, sending him skidding across the boat's deck. The impact cracked wood beneath them, and the sheer power behind the blow nearly knocked him overboard.

Gerard advanced, relentlessly pursuing the destruction of anyone who would stand against the Revolution.

The enemy recovered quickly, raising his sword defensively. He was strong— a Master as well, given how easily he’d been winning earlier— but not strong enough. He relied on his enchanted armor and blade to keep up now, but Gerard could see that he was being pushed back, his defense cracking under the sheer force of his fury.

Blow after blow, strike after strike, Gerard gained ground, overwhelming the enemy through sheer power. It wasn’t his usual style, as he much preferred defeating his enemies through his skill alone, but the more time he spent fighting this cur, the more his men suffered.

Each step sent shockwaves across the wooden deck, shaking the boat as the river frothed with the rhythm of their battle.

The enemy gritted his teeth, forcing himself to keep up. His strikes were precise and well-practiced, but they lacked the raw power behind Gerard’s new strength, who parried effortlessly as his new excess mana flowed through him like second nature.

This is taking too long. I need to end it.

If even the boost of power from becoming a Master wasn’t enough, then maybe he needed to use a skill he had long kept buried.

[Last Stand] It is, then.

A skill known exclusively to the Hetnia Royal Corps, intended for the final moments of a knight’s life when all else had failed, and sacrifice was the only answer. It consumed the user’s very life force, trading vitality for unmatched power. It had always been too dangerous, too reckless, even during the Incursion.

But now, it felt right. It was as if something within him told him he didn’t need to fear its drain. Normally, he would have suppressed such a voice as foolishness, but tonight had already been absurd enough. What is one more sacrifice when the Light is behind me?

Gerard activated it, feeling the skill awaken within him. But unlike when he had been taught it, he felt much more control over the drain. It was only a matter of flexing his will to prevent it from consuming him completely. He managed the flow, skimming just enough of his own life to fuel the fire of his strength without letting it claim him.

His aura ignited like a bonfire. His speed doubled, his power surged, and in that moment, he became an unstoppable force.

The enemy barely had time to react as Gerard’s sword blurred through the air, cutting through his enchanted armor as though it were paper. The blade slashed through his shoulder, sending blood spraying into the dark waters below. The man staggered, eyes wide in disbelief. Red pooled at his feet in dark rivulets, and yet even that wasn’t enough.

Gerard could see in his eyes that this man was willing to sacrifice anything to win, and so he pulled even more off his life force, swinging with all his power and not even slowing when his blade shattered his opponent’s.

The enemy gasped, staring at the broken remnants of his weapon. Then, Gerard’s blade met his neck, sending his head flying in the air, until it dropped to his feet.

The battle was over. But Gerard was not done.

He turned, his eyes blazing, and leapt from one boat to the next. The tide turned instantly on each boat he landed on. The enemy soldiers, seeing their leader defeated, faltered. Fear spread like wildfire among them.

His men, emboldened by his newfound power, rallied behind him. What had been a desperate struggle moments ago became a rout. The enemy’s formations collapsed, and one by one, they threw down their weapons.

Surrender came in droves.

By the time Gerard stood atop the final boat, surveying the battlefield, it was over. The waters of the Great Slitherer, dark with blood, slowly stilled. The remnants of the enemy force knelt in surrender in the sand, their heads bowed, weapons cast aside.

Gerard exhaled, feeling the adrenaline slowly begin to fade.

He had won. Treon had won.

Gerard strode through the castle halls as exhaustion weighed on his shoulders like a heavy cloak. His muscles ached since his body was still adjusting to the power coursing through him. No one ever mentions how tiring a Blessing can be. Though to be fair, it might be [Last Stand] that’s making me feel so miserable… Yeah, that might be it.

The battle was won, the enemy soldiers turned over to the Security Forces for processing, and now all he desired was a bath and some sleep.

Yet, something pricked at the edges of his awareness.

A presence. A shadow moving where none should be.

He did not falter in his steps, nor did he show any sign of noticing. Instead, he adjusted his course, walking down a slightly different path that would take him through an inner courtyard surrounded on all sides by tall stone walls. It was a dead end for anyone lacking a strong escape skill.

He stepped into the open space, making it look like he was observing how the moonlight casts pale silver over the quiet garden. Suddenly, he turned sharply, drawing his sword and pointing it toward where he knew the stalker was. “Show yourself.”

A beat, then a chuckle echoed from the shadows. “Very good, Governor.”

From the gloom of a pillar, Damien, the Vicar, emerged with an easy smile. His hands were loosely folded behind his back, and his fox-like eyes gleamed under the moonlight. He tilted his head slightly, as though appraising Gerard in a way that made his skin prickle.

“Congratulations on your Blessing,” Damien said smoothly. “That was quite the display. It did force us to readjust some plans, but then again, we are mere servants of the Light. We cannot predict who it will deem worthy.”

Gerard exhaled through his nose, relaxing his stance slightly. “You followed me all this way just to say that?”

Damien smirked. “No, but it was also nice to see that I could still do it without you noticing until now.”

Gerard rolled his eyes, too tired to entertain the priest’s endless games, and didn’t bother to correct him. “If you have something important to say, do it now. Otherwise, I’ll hear you out in the morning. We have a meeting scheduled, if I remember correctly.”

Damien didn’t respond right away. Instead, he studied Gerard, his expression unreadable. For the briefest moment, he seemed genuinely dangerous—his normally friendly demeanor shifting into something sharper and predatory.

Gerard’s hand twitched toward his sword.

Then, just as quickly as it had come, the moment passed. Damien’s grin returned, and he spread his hands as if in surrender. “Relax, Governor. I just wanted to make sure you were healthy and uninjured. Nothing more.”

Gerard sighed, rubbing his temple. “I’m fine. And I’ll be better after I sleep.” He turned on his heel and strode away, leaving Damien chuckling softly in the shadows.

The following morning, Gerard made his way to the War Council chamber, his mind still clouded with thoughts of his newfound power. His ascension to Master tier was a monumental step, yet the world had not paused to acknowledge it. He had not been given time to revel in it. The city still needed him, and the enemy still approached.

As he stepped inside, his momentary sense of self-importance faded.

Lia stood near the long table, murmuring quietly to her apprentice, Margaret, who nodded attentively. Damien leaned lazily against a pillar, speaking with Sigurd and Eleanor. Jean, as usual, was slouched in her seat, arms crossed, watching the room with half-lidded eyes.

They were all powerful. All exceptional in their own ways.

Gerard had climbed the mountain and found himself merely standing among equals. Still lower, in the case of some.

Pushing that thought aside, he took his seat as the meeting began.

Sigurd spoke first, recounting the events of the previous night’s operation. His account was clear and precise, detailing their infiltration, the unexpected hostility of the enemy soldiers, and the battle that had ensued. His voice held no embellishment, no unnecessary dramatics. Just facts.

For a Bard of his experience to limit himself so made it clear how serious the situation was.

When he finished, Damien took over. “The Security Forces managed to extract quite a bit from the prisoners,” he said, idly tapping on the wooden table. “Apparently, there was a hidden signal the disguised spies were meant to give the soldiers when they made contact. When that didn’t happen, the soldiers assumed something had gone wrong, and when they first noticed signs of an ambush, they immediately began attacking.”

Gerard frowned. That meant that Garva’s forces were meticulous, and prepared for betrayal. They weren’t just sending soldiers blindly into the city; they were embedding them with well-crafted plans, that left little room for failure.

“And what about the siege?” Jean asked, bored.

Damien sighed, shaking his head. “The soldiers we captured didn’t know anything specific. But,” he continued, his golden eyes sharpening, “based on the way they were speaking, I’d say the Garvan navy will move within a day or two. At most.”

As if on cue, the doors to the chamber burst open.

A runner rushed inside, breathless and wide-eyed. “Governor! The enemy ships have been spotted on the horizon!”

A heavy silence settled over the room.

Gerard clenched his jaw, his fingers pressing against the table. So it had begun.

He rose to his feet, his exhaustion forgotten, replaced by the cold steel of command. “Sound the bells,” he ordered. “Ready the defenses.”

The Battle of Treon was upon them.

Chapter 171 - Lost Lambs - Damien 5

Damien stood by the council chamber’s window, watching as the city sprang to life. The bells had rung just moments ago, and Treon would now prepare to welcome the would-be invaders.

Soldiers rushed down the stone streets, shouting orders loudly enough to be heard over the noise. The creak of heavy artillery being maneuvered echoed through the keep's corridors. The river beyond the harbor lay still, and if Damien hadn’t known that the Divination Division was watching every movement of the enemy’s flotilla, he would have considered it a perfect moment to launch an attack, as most of the fleet was on patrol.

Across the room, Gerard had already risen from his seat, and a grim sense of determination seemed to have taken hold of him. “I’ll oversee the defenses,” he said briskly. “I expect immediate reports if you learn anything from the prisoners.” Damien inclined his head, watching as the man left.

Jean stretched her arms over her head with a lazy grin. “I’ll take to the skies. The DD might be good, but I’m sure Duke Garva will have some kind of interference running soon.”

Without another word, she strode out onto the balcony and took off, sending papers fluttering across the table. And there goes our secret weapon. Who would have thought our hopes and dreams would rest on the shoulders of a teenage girl?

That left him with Sigurd, Eleanor, Lia, and Margaret.

He glanced toward the door, then flicked his chin toward it in a silent command. Sigurd caught his meaning, nudging Eleanor. “We should go check on the troops,” he said smoothly. “Make sure morale is high.”

Eleanor raised an eyebrow but went along with it. “Yes. And the, uh, supply situation.”

Damien barely waited for them to step out before he turned toward Lia. The old hobgoblin sat as still as stone, her piercing eyes locked onto him. He then tilted his head toward Margaret, wordlessly asking if she should stay.

Lia didn’t hesitate. “She can stay.”

Damien smiled thinly, not arguing the point. If the old bat wanted to make the little girl think she was trusted, who was he to disrupt her plans? “Then let’s talk about the real issues.”

Lia exhaled, leaning back in her chair. “The alchemists that escaped from the Capital have put in the work. Thanks to them, we have enough munitions for the cannons to turn the entire Garvan fleet into splinters.”

Damien raised an eyebrow. “You’re that confident?”

“I don’t believe it will actually happen, of course,” Lia commented offhandedly. “Only some of the brew is strong enough to punch through their ships’ protections. Most of it will still do considerable damage, but only if the shields are weakened beforehand.”

Damien’s smirk widened. “That shouldn’t be a problem, at least for the first wave.”

Lia narrowed her eyes. “Your saboteurs?”

“Of course.” Damien leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “We’ve ensured that almost all the first ships to reach us will have significantly weaker shields. Structural sabotage and runic interference require skill, so it was a bit of a hazard to send such valuable assets over to Garva, but it was effective. We’ll be sure to have the gunners use the weaker munitions on those.”

Lia nodded, then turned to Margaret. “Go to the alchemical department. Begin sorting through the different strengths. We need to set aside the best ones for when the bulk of the navy catches up with the vanguard.”

Margaret stood immediately. “Yes, master.” Without another word, she slipped out of the room, leaving Damien alone with Lia.

For a moment, there was only silence.

Then Lia folded her hands. “You received Amelia’s message?”

Damien’s easy demeanor faded slightly. He reached into his coat, pulling out a single folded letter. “She sent word. It seems we have a bigger problem than we thought.”

Lia frowned. “A Champion mage is enough to level Treon, and we don’t even know where he might be.”

Damien nodded. “Amelia is confident he’ll intervene. Probably when the siege peaks. So, we’ll have to lure him out before then.”

Lia grunted in annoyance. “That complicates things.”

“That’s an understatement.” Damien tapped a finger against the table. “We have just one person in our ranks who can take on such a dangerous individual. I dislike having single-point failures like that.”

Lia’s expression darkened. “How do you propose we counter him?”

Damien grinned, sharp and amused. “I already have some ideas. Have some Faith.”

As soon as Damien left the council chamber, the friendly demeanor faded from his face. The expression he had tried so hard to maintain became inscrutable as he made his way through the castle's winding corridors. The torches flickered in their sconces, as natural light did not reach this deep. He walked quickly, his footsteps soundless. Sigurd and Eleanor weren’t the only ones who had benefited from using the mirror.

I won’t ever be a frontline fighter, but that’s not my role. The Revolution needs someone who’ll do what needs to be done. That’s who I am. That’s the role He entrusted to me.

He descended through the depths of the castle, passing checkpoint after checkpoint, where heavily armed guards greeted him with military salutes. These men were not the regular city watch or even Lady Neer’s Security Forces—these were the revolution’s elite, seasoned veterans who had repeatedly proven their loyalty. Many of them did not smile upon seeing him, nor did they engage in casual conversation. Their eyes were wary, and their grips on their weapons were ready to strike him down should he prove to be an imposter.

Just like he’d molded them, these men would never be the face of the Revolution, but they were more than fine with it. They all understood that they were the foundation upon which everything stood.

Finally, he reached the lower dungeons. The stench hit him immediately—stale sweat, unwashed bodies, and the coppery tang of dried blood. A warning to any unlucky enough to be brought here against their will; not a particularly subtle one, but it was effective. The message was clear: this was where the enemies of the Revolution found their end.

A massive door of enchanted wood barred his way, its surface covered in intricate etchings meant to deter tampering. Two more guards stood watch. Unlike the others, these men wielded enchanted instruments, waving them over him in slow, methodical movements. The glow of runes flickered as they scanned him, ensuring that he was who he appeared to be.

This was also necessary. The number of infiltrators had decreased with the Revolutionary Army's advance up North, but that didn’t mean there were none still lurking around.

Jean’s efforts in understanding the mirror beneath the castle had led to fascinating developments, and while Damien had no interest in the arcane specifics, he did appreciate the results. Treon was well-defended on all fronts now, and the longer they had to understand the wondrous relic, the more its benefits would trickle down.

Once satisfied he was who he appeared to be, the guards stepped back. “Clear,” one of them grunted before unlocking the door and allowing Damien to pass through.

Inside, two more men were rough-handling a Garvan soldier, pressing him against a rickety wooden chair. The prisoner’s face was a mess of bruises, his lips split and his right eye swollen shut. He struggled weakly, but exhaustion and pain had drained much of his strength. The guards turned when they noticed Damien’s entrance, their expressions twisting into something close to irritation.

“Great,” one of them muttered, stepping back. “The priest is here.”

Damien affected a passive mien, making himself shrink away as if he were an acolyte shrinking in front of the display of brutality. “I’m sorry, sirs. I was sent here to tend to the prisoners, and the Councilman was clear I had to see to all of them.”

This was one of his best ideas. The Garvan soldiers knew little about who governed within the Revolution, but they knew that Leonard Weiss was the Hero of the Light. For him to have ordered free access to the local priests wasn’t much of a stretch.

The other guard scoffed but backed off nonetheless, oozing reluctant compliance. Damien had arranged for this reaction long ago. It wouldn’t do for the enemy to see him as anything other than a reluctant participant in the Revolution’s dealings.

He kept his head down, waiting until the two had left the room before allowing himself to straighten, though not enough to suggest confidence.

He reached into his coat and pulled out a small vial filled with red liquid. Without a word, he placed it on the nearby table before crouching beside the prisoner, who blinked at him in sluggish confusion.

“Easy now,” Damien murmured, reaching up to gently grasp the man’s arm, helping him up into the chair. “You look terrible.”

The soldier groaned but said nothing. This was their third such interaction, and the man had only spoken in syllables so far. This will be it. I can see his willpower is about to break.

Damien tilted the vial to his lips, watching as the red liquid trickled into his mouth. It was a slow-acting healing draught—sufficient to close his wounds and ease his pain but not enough to restore him completely. It also had the side effect of creating dependence on Thistlefrond, a plant found only in Hetnia. Damien thought of it as insurance.

Immediate relief washed over the soldier’s face, his breath evening out as the sharpest edges of his suffering dulled.

“Better?” Damien asked softly.

The soldier swallowed thickly, then gave a slow nod. “Yes,” he rasped.

“Good.” Damien settled himself on the edge of the table, his expression shifting into something gentler. “I wish I could do more for you. But… well.” He sighed, looking away as if ashamed. “My hands are tied.”

The soldier studied him, his gaze wary but also tired. “You’re a good priest,” he finally said. Oh, look. He’s trying to console me.

Damien offered a small, pained smile. “I was, once. Before all of this.” He gestured vaguely to the room around them. “They force us to help them. To comfort the condemned is the least I can do.”

The soldier exhaled, his shoulders slumping. “So I don’t have hope, then.”

Damien said nothing, only offering him a quiet, solemn look.

For the next twenty minutes, he played his part perfectly. He spoke of faith, redemption, and the mercy of the Light. His voice lulled the man into a false sense of security, acting as a steady balm against the prisoner’s fear. Slowly but surely, the walls around the soldier’s mind began to crumble.

He spoke of forgiveness, of regrets washed away, and as the soldier relaxed into the illusion of safety, Damien was careful never to hint he was even remotely interested in martial matters. Though he was sure he already had him, he wasn’t a fool. He wouldn’t burn through the goodwill he’d built up for such a paltry prize. And I just need to wait. He’s about to break.

Indeed, finally, the moment came.

The soldier licked his lips, glancing up at Damien. “Will you… take my last confession?”

Damien did not smile. But inside, he felt victorious.

He reached for the man’s hands, clasping them between his own in a show of solemnity. “Of course,” he murmured. “Tell me everything. I swear on the Light itself, I will take it to the grave.” And I mean to. I will forever remember your foolishness.

“I was assigned to Captain Mortensen against my will. He is a known liability but was the only Master to volunteer for the infiltration mission. He just needed men to follow his orders, and my Captain was quick to offer some of us.” He paused here, looking at Damien. When he found only a warm smile, he continued, shoulders easing. “We were told the revolutionaries would be defeated long before we arrived here. But the months kept passing, and we heard nothing of victory. Some of my friends considered deserting, but they were caught before they could act. They always told us that Duke Garva has ears everywhere, but I never thought it was true.”

As the man spoke, Damien listened intently, committing every piece of information to memory. It took a good half an hour to extract everything, but when the soldier finally fell silent, Damien squeezed his hands gently.

“Thank you, my son.”

The man exhaled, his eyes slipping closed in resignation.

“May your blood water the roots of freedom.” The soldier opened his eyes in shock, staring in horror as a golden blade pierced his heart.

Chapter 172 - Burn it all - Charry 9

The sea churned beneath them, dark and restless, as Charry gripped the Wavebreaker’s railing while the first Garvan ships appeared on the horizon. His heart raced with excitement, yet he did his best to control it. It wouldn’t be wise to act too soon now. This was meant to be a delaying and intelligence-gathering operation, nothing more.

He had been ordered to keep the enemy navy at bay for as long as possible, and may the Light help him, he was going to do it. It's not like I have much to come back to. An empty house, no children. No, it’s better to be here, making a difference.

The Wavebreaker had transformed over the past few months, just like all the ships of the Revolutionary Navy. Reinforced hulls, stronger cannons, and alchemical explosives had been loaded up—everything the research divisions had developed, every ounce of ingenuity and desperation they could muster, had been channeled into the fleet to make it a formidable force.

Charry had witnessed wonders during his time as a Captain, including the battle between the Great Slitherer and the Deep One alongside Lady Amelia. But none of that mattered now. Only magic and the fire of cannons would determine their fate.

"Three ships almost in range!" came the cry from the crow’s nest.

Charry turned, narrowing his keen eyes. The Garvan navy’s vanguard had arrived, easily recognizable by their black sails snapping in the wind. They were fast, well-armed, and no doubt confident. The months spent skirmishing around the Scales might not have led to any significant loss for either side, but they had ended with Garva taking control of most of the islets.

"Anton!" he barked, turning to his dwarven artillery expert. "Load the starboard cannon with the heavy shot. We’ll make a run alongside them and rake their hulls before they even have a chance to return fire."

Anton’s thick beard bristled with excitement as he grinned. Making things explode was one of the few things that could make the surly dwarf happy. "Aye, Cap’n! Let’s show these bastards what a revolution looks like."

Thanks to months of hard work, the crew sprang into action, moving almost entirely in silence. Powder monkeys scurried below deck to prepare the munitions while the gunners carefully positioned their shots. Charry felt the familiar adrenaline rush settle into his bones, and his worries faded.

The first ship soon came within range.

"Fire!"

A deafening roar split the air as the Wavebreaker’s cannons unleashed hell. The heavy shot ripped through the enemy’s shield as if it wasn’t even there, splintering wood and sending men flying. Smoke billowed into the sky, and the cries of the wounded rang out across the waves.

"Reload and prepare for another volley!”

It’s like shooting fish in a barrel. They are so sure their protections will hold that they didn’t even stop to think we might have sandbagged them before.

But the Garvans were not idle. Their forward cannons fired, and the Wavebreaker rocked violently as a shot slammed into her reinforced hull. Charry barely flinched.

"Brace and prepare a boarding party!" he roared.

The Wavebreaker cut across the enemy’s path, guns blazing. The second Garvan ship also took a broadside once its shield was down, its masts groaning as the impact shredded sails and sent crewmen tumbling into the sea. The third ship maneuvered sharply, trying to flank, but it was too late.

"Now! Board them!"

Grappling hooks flew, biting into wood. They unfolded, creating suspended bridges and sealing the enemy’s fate. Charry led the charge, sword drawn, as his men swung across the gap and landed on the enemy’s deck. Chaos erupted around him, and he had to keep a grin from forming.

The enemy captain, a battle-hardened veteran with a cruel sneer, confronted him head-on. Despite Charry’s preference for theatrics, he didn’t let himself make that mistake and immediately lunged, trying to skewer the man. His opponent proved skilled, as he easily dodged, only to pivot to try and cut his extended arm off.

Charry retreated easily, pirouetting away from a thrown knife and attacking again.

A feint, a sidestep, and then—

Charry’s blade found its mark, slicing through the man’s doublet and opening a deep wound across his chest. The Garvan captain gasped, eyes wide with disbelief, before crumpling to the deck.

Victory.

"Secure the ship!" Charry called out, wiping his blade clean. "Clear out the hold, take anything useful. We’ll sink it before reinforcements arrive!"

Anton and the others worked quickly, scavenging powder, weapons, and supplies before setting the charges. As the two remaining enemy vessels got close enough, Charry jumped back to his own and gave the order. "Detonate."

A thunderous explosion tore the captured ship apart, sending debris and smoke billowing into the sky and irreparably damaging the rest. The Wavebreaker pulled away just in time, the shockwave jolting the hull.

Unfortunately, there was no time to celebrate.

More enemy ships emerged from the distance. The Garvan navy was coming in full force, and though Charry and his fleet had delayed their advance, they could not stop them forever.

"Captain! There’s too many of them!"

Charry gritted his teeth. The first fight had gone well, but they were reaching the tipping point. If they stayed any longer, they would be overwhelmed.

"Signal the fleet! We’ll reform at point seven and harry their flanks!"

The rest of the Revolutionary Navy’s ships who had volunteered for the mission responded with remarkable coordination. They struck fast, crippling rudders, shattering masts, and ensuring every Garvan ship that made it past them would be sailing slower and wounded.

They continued to stall the enemy for nearly half a day, maneuvering through the chaos, striking with precision, and retreating before being overwhelmed. Charry himself boarded two more ships, cutting down officers and burning supplies before escaping the sinking vessels.

But the enemy’s numbers were endless, and even the best tactics had limits.

As the sun reached its zenith, he knew the time had come.

He spun to his signal officer. "Raise the retreat flag. All ships fall back to Treon. We’ve done our part."

The Wavebreaker turned hard, its battered sails catching the wind as it sped toward safety. Behind them, the Garvan navy pursued, but they were bloodied, and their advance was delayed by precious hours.

As the docks came into view, Charry prepared to do something stupid.

The Wavebreaker returned to port in battered glory, her hull scarred, sails tattered, and decks slick with the grime of battle. Charry barely had time to breathe before he began barking orders. He had one last gift to give the enemy. “Load up on alchemical explosives! As much as we can carry!”

Some of the younger sailors paused, exchanging bewildered looks. One of them, a lean young man not yet in his twenties, hesitated before speaking. “But, Captain… we’re behind the ward line, right? Once they’re up, the city will hold.”

Charry didn’t stop moving, shoving a crate of munitions toward the loading ramp. His muscles burned, exhaustion clawing at the edges of his mind, but he would not stop now. “Our duty isn’t to sit behind wards and watch the enemy come,” he growled. “Our duty is to keep them as far from Treon as possible. And when that fails, we make sure they pay for every damn inch.”

Anton, standing at the railing, let out a gruff chuckle. “Ah,” he muttered, stroking his beard. “Now I see what you’re plannin’, Cap’n.” Without another word, the dwarf stepped forward, grabbing crates and hauling them aboard with his thick arms. “If the Wavebreaker is going down, we best give it a proper sendoff.”

The thought of losing his ship—his beautiful, defiant Wavebreaker—hurt his heart. But his duty was greater than his love for the sea. Treon needed time, and if a single ship could buy it at the cost of its own destruction, then so be it.

The crew worked tirelessly, ignoring fatigue in response to their captain’s determination. One by one, crates of explosives were stowed in the hold, nestled among barrels of oil and volatile compounds created by Lady Lia and her alchemists. Each pound of explosives meant more destruction, more delay, and more chaos for the enemy.

As the horizon darkened with the sight of enemy ships drawing closer, Charry knew it was time.

He turned to his crew, standing at attention on the dock. Each of them bore the exhaustion of men who had fought too long and lost too much—but their spirits remained unbroken. He wished he could bring them all with him, but this was not their burden to bear.

“The Wavebreaker sails one last time,” he said, voice firm. “Anton and I will take her out. The rest of you will stay here. Fight for Treon. Make sure our work isn’t in vain if we don’t come back.”

A chorus of protests rose immediately, but he silenced them with a raised hand. “This isn’t up for debate,” he continued. “Men are needed here, defending the walls, fighting on the ground. We delay them at sea; you have to make sure they don’t take the city.”

His quartermaster, a grizzled old sailor who had been with him since the beginning, stepped forward. “It’s been an honor, Captain.”

Charry smiled grimly. “No goodbyes, you hear me? Just keep fighting. We’ll be back.”

With that, he and Anton climbed aboard the ship, pulling away the gangplank behind them. The crew watched in silence as the Wavebreaker drifted out to sea, a lone vessel sailing toward an overwhelming enemy force.

The retreating Revolutionary Navy ships hailed them, but Charry ignored their signals. He had no orders to give, no explanations to provide. This was his decision, and he would see it through.

The Garvan fleet loomed ahead. Charry could already see their sailors bustling across the decks, preparing for battle. But the Wavebreaker sailed straight toward them, unmoving, unwavering.

“They’re gettin’ suspicious,” Anton muttered, tightening his grip on the railing. “Should’ve known a single ship comin’ at ‘em all quiet-like was too strange.”

Charry nodded. “Good. If they use up their protections against us, they’ll be fodder for the city’s cannons.”

The enemy ships slowed, cautious. Shouted orders echoed across the water as sailors pointed toward them, eyes narrowing in confusion. Still, the Wavebreaker pressed on, cutting through the waves like a phantom.

Charry turned to Anton. “It’s time. You should get going.” He nodded toward the skiff they had prepared, the only means of escape before their deadly cargo ignited. But Anton crossed his arms and shook his head.

“I ain’t leavin’ till you do.” He spat into the sea.

Charry opened his mouth to argue, but one look at the dwarf’s set expression told him it would be pointless. Instead, he let out a slow breath, nodding once. “Fine. We’ll leave together.”

The seconds stretched, tension thick in the salt-heavy air. Closer now. Close enough to see the faces of the enemy sailors, their wary expressions shifting into confusion, then realization, then panic.

Charry struck the flint.

The spark caught, leaping to the carefully placed fuse. It sizzled and raced along the deck, winding its way toward the belly of the ship where death awaited in the form of alchemical fire.

“Go!” Charry bellowed, grabbing Anton’s arm and hauling him toward the railing.

They leaped, plunging into the sea just as the chain reaction ignited. It was too late now to risk the skiff, and so Charry forced himself downward, kicking hard to flee the impending blast. The water darkened around them, pressure closing in—

The world above exploded.

A massive shockwave slammed into them, pushing them deeper into the abyss. Heat roared overhead, even below the water, and Charry knew without looking that his ship was lost.

He closed his eyes, struggling against the water, before kicking hard toward the surface. Anton was next to him, swimming with steady strokes. It had taken a while to teach him, but it had been worth it.

They broke through, gasping for air, just in time to see the flaming wreckage of the Wavebreaker rain down upon the Garvan fleet. The nearest ships had been torn apart, their hulls cracked, their masts collapsing under the force of the explosion. Smoke and fire consumed the sea.

Charry let out a ragged laugh, watching as the alchemical fires danced on the water.

Chapter 173 - The Skies Above - Jean 9

Jean landed gracefully on the stone platform beside the towering structure that served as the Mage Corps’ headquarters, her boots barely making a sound against the reinforced pavement. The new Mage Tower was a grandiose spire of shimmering stone and intricate magical inscriptions, and it stood as the new Treon’s beating arcane heart. Its sigils glowed faintly, humming with power in anticipation of the spellwork to come.

If I had known it was too young to have a Locus Foci, I would have expected it to manifest now. Those things love major magical works. The fact that it took us only a few months to transform it into a Masterwork on its own merit, while so many of the regional Towers still languish proves I was right that it was time to abandon the old ways.

The city’s defenses depended heavily on the preparations made by the Mage Corps, and Jean, as Treon’s sole Champion and Archmage, held the ultimate responsibility for ensuring those defenses held. Even as the wind tugged at her robes, she could sense the vast, latent energy accumulating beneath her feet, waiting to be channeled into the city’s protective matrix.

She barely had time to dust off her robes before she was ushered inside by her subordinates. Senior Enchanters, Wardmasters, and Runewrights hurried alongside her, briefing her in hushed tones as they made their way through the tower’s winding corridors. Their excitement and anxiety only increased her anticipation as they recounted what had been done and what still remained.

And to think that when we took it, this city had a tower filled with second and third sons. This shows that the people could always reach for greatness; they just needed a chance.

“Archmage Franklin,” one of the Wardmasters greeted her as she stepped into the grand chamber. “We have completed ninety percent of the matrix, and the final integration of the wardstones is underway. We await your approval to proceed with the last phase.”

Jean’s sharp eyes scanned the ward chamber. It was a vast, circular space at the heart of the tower, with walls adorned by runic arrays, each carefully carved into the precious conductive stone. At the center lay the enormous magic circle—Treon’s first and best line of defense. Its glyphs interwove in an intricate, shimmering web, eagerly awaiting the final input of power.

She moved quickly, inspecting the layers of spellwork. Though her mages were highly skilled and had done their best, considering how much of a rush job this had been, she spotted several inefficiencies. A few misaligned runic sequences here and an outdated schema there. She adjusted them quickly and without bothering to punish anyone, her fingers glowing with blue light as she traced over the necessary corrections, etching in modifications that would enhance stability and mana distribution.

“There,” she murmured, stepping back after the final correction. “Much better. This will ensure that the ward array lasts significantly longer under sustained assault.”

The wardmasters nodded, making rapid notes on their scrolls. Even now, they sought to learn. It was kind of cute.

Jean huffed with a smile, satisfied. “Bring in the mana crystals.”

At her command, a procession of levitating carts entered the chamber, each stacked high—it was more wealth in one place than most noble houses of Hetnia could ever dream of. Even Count Luster-Treon would have been hard-pressed to waste that much at once, though she didn’t intend to go through the whole stockpile. It’s just insurance.

The mages guided them with care, maneuvering the stones into their designated receptacles around the magic circle. These crystals had been harvested from the hills outside Treon, where a massive deposit had been discovered months prior. Now, they would serve as the lifeblood of the city’s defenses.

One by one, the stones were slotted into place. The runes on the walls flickered, responding to the vast influx of raw magical energy. The ward matrix pulsed like a living thing, eager to be activated.

Jean turned to her assembled mages. “Once we activate the wards, the enemy will realize that their bombardment will not be as effective as they had hoped. That means they will shift their tactics.”

Murmurs ran through the gathered spellcasters.

“We expect attacks not just from the fleet, but from within,” Jean continued. “There will be spies, infiltrators, and saboteurs who will attempt to disrupt our defenses. Some may try to breach the tower itself.”

A younger mage swallowed audibly. “The tower? But—”

Jean’s gaze hardened. “Do not be naive. The enemy has likely prepared multiple vectors of attack, just as we have spent the past months getting ready to defend ourselves. They will not sit idly by while we make their siege impossible. The tower is a prime target, and we must prepare accordingly.”

She gestured toward the highest-ranking mages. “Our battle mages will take to the walls and assist in bombarding the fleet. Focus your fire on their siege weapons and command ships. Those remaining within the tower will monitor and reinforce the wards, and act as our last line of defense should the worst come to pass.”

She turned to the Wardmaster. “Make sure we have an emergency containment spell prepared in case the lower levels are breached.”

The older man nodded gravely. “Understood, Archmage.”

Jean took a deep breath, centering herself. If she could just stay here for the duration of the siege, she knew she could keep the wards up and running, but if they wanted any hope of winning the fight and not just surviving it, she needed to go out and lead.

Especially if Amelia’s fears come true.

“Take your places,” she ordered. “We’ll begin.”

The mages moved into position, forming a massive ring around the magic circle. Their role would be to extract and channel the crystals’ power into the array. Everything else, from the shaping to the casting, would be up to her.

Jean stepped to the center of the array. Her hands rose, weaving intricate symbols in the air. The runes around her blazed to life as the vast network of sigils and lines surged with power. The air crackled, thick with mana, and the first layers of the ward structure began to take shape.

Outside, the first warships of the Garvan fleet came into range, and the distant echoes of war drums began to thunder.

Jean’s breathing was slow, unhurried. The hum of magic coursed through the air, thick and alive, wrapping around her like a second skin. The vast array of runes inscribed into the floor shimmered, waiting, expectant. She closed her eyes, surrendering herself to the overwhelming current of power about to be unleashed.

Then, she reached out and began to work.

Her consciousness expanded as her mana surged into the matrix, weaving through the intricate layers of the massive spell structure. The mana crystals pulsed in response as the mages began to extract their powers and fed them into the array.

Jean grabbed onto it and manipulated it with the precision of a master artisan, directing the power along carefully prepared pathways, illuminating the vast network of glyphs and sigils that constituted the backbone of Treon’s defenses.

Slowly, the wards began to take form.

She started with the outermost layers, allowing the first thin sheen of shimmering energy to unfurl across Treon like a translucent dome. It extended over the towering walls, tracing their every stone, reinforcing the ancient fortifications with arcane strength. Beneath her careful control, the defensive lattice interlocked perfectly, forming a solid but flexible construct capable of absorbing immense physical force.

The first layer was merely the foundation. It was there in case the enemy had managed to plant explosives around. She didn’t think they had, but it was better to be safe than sorry.

Jean then pushed deeper into the array, activating the secondary lines of protection. The shimmering light thickened and spread further, accounting for everything from elemental bombardments to cannon fire. The shield had to withstand siege spells, not merely disperse them; it needed to roll with the shockwaves, seamlessly redistributing pressure so that no single point bore the brunt of an assault.

She wove countermeasures into the framework, infusing the ward with immunity to magic draining, a nasty trick used by pirate sorcerers who sought to bleed a town’s defenses dry before their ships arrived. Jean ensured that any attempt to siphon energy from the wards would instead lead to a brutal feedback loop, turning the thief’s own spell against them in a violent surge of wild mana.

Another pulse of magic. Another layer settled in place.

The next enchantments settled over the city like an invisible mist, preventing the spread of curses meant to rot the ward’s magic from within. Hexes designed to erode structural integrity, sigils meant to disrupt mana flows—Jean accounted for them all. Every potential weakness had been identified and rectified long before the actual casting began. The shield would not waver due to trickery.

And yet, her greatest effort went into the spell’s ability to endure.

Layer by layer, Jean ensured the wards could take a battering, absorb the shock from siege weapons, endure spell barrages, and reform almost instantly if even a single hairline crack appeared. Resilience was the key to survival. The city would not crumble from a single decisive blow; Treon would persevere as its defenses resembled a mighty river, bending but never breaking.

Her work was flawless, and she could feel the awe radiating from her mages as they watched her make the process look effortless.

For Jean, this was art. It was what she was born to do.

The wards spread beyond the walls, stretching over the harbor’s piers. Unlike the rest of the city, there was no solid structure to anchor the barrier here, only the river’s edge. It was delicate work, requiring an intricate balance of strength and deference.

The spirits of the Great Slitherer would not tolerate encroachment into their domain. Therefore, Jean wove the final edge of the ward just before the river’s free waters, creating an invisible line that would halt enemy ships while leaving the spirits undisturbed.

Something piqued her attention at the harbor, and for a moment, she slowed her efforts.

There, emerging from the dark waters, were two bedraggled figures, navy sailors barely clinging to consciousness as they stumbled onto the docks.

Jean paused, recognizing them.

With a subtle shift in her casting speed, she slowed the wards’ descent over the harbor just enough to ensure their safe passage. The two men collapsed onto the pier, gasping for breath, unaware of the favor they had just received. Only when they were safely within the city’s protection did Jean resume at full speed, the final layers falling into place.

And then, at last, the spell was complete.

The light of the wards flared, rising to a crescendo before settling into an imperceptible veil. Jean exhaled deeply, a slow smile curling across her lips. The city was secure.

It should have been a moment of triumph; she had accomplished alone what typically required teams of hundreds. Yet, she maintained her caution and was soon rewarded for it.

Her eyes darted toward the upper edge of the wardroom, where the delicate, shimmering strands of her spellwork wavered just a little. A hidden intruder was trying to bypass the protections and tamper with the casting. The arrogance!

Jean raised her hand.

A whisper of magic curled at her fingertips, raw mana coalescing into something lethal. Her incantation was silent, as she had no need for words. Her intent was more than enough for the world to bend to her whims.

A disintegrating curse left her hand.

The air split apart as the spell struck. For a fraction of a second, nothing happened. Then, a scream.

A figure flickered into existence, his invisibility stripped away as the curse took hold. A Garvan infiltrator, dressed in enchanted leathers, twisted in agony as his body began to dissolve into ashen fragments. The other mages gasped, their shock evident as they beheld their Archmage’s work.

Jean merely smiled, lowering her hand as the last remnants of the spy crumbled into nothingness.

She turned to her assembled spellcasters, her voice even and calm. “Treon will not fall. I will make sure of it.”

Chapter 174

Jean soared over Treon, the wind whipping through her hair as she flew. Below her, the city continued its preparations, more determined than ever to show the would-be invaders what it was made of. The streets bustled with activity as soldiers took their positions, mages reinforced critical spell matrices, and civilians sought shelter deep within the fortress city. This was not the first time Treon had faced a siege, but it had never encountered an enemy so resolute in its intent to destroy it.

She touched down atop the battlements, landing lightly beside the assembled battlemages of the Mage Corps. Their robes billowed in the ocean wind, and to her eyes, they looked tense but determined. That was good; she hated idiots who thought they were safe just because of the wards.

“Archmage,” one of the senior mages greeted her, bowing slightly. “We’re completing the preparations to engage.”

Jean gave a curt nod. “I’ll take over reinforcing the projectile enchantments; concentrate on the heat sinks. We need every cannon to last as long as possible if the siege is to last as long as I think it will.”

She lifted her hands, and the air around them pulsed with raw mana. The cannons lining the walls of Treon were already formidable, but with the right spells, their range would stretch farther, their impact would be more devastating, and their trajectory would adjust mid-flight. She moved methodically, touching each artillery piece with a whisper of power, guiding the mages to weave in their own enhancements.

When a low murmur spread through the ranks, she knew that the Garvan fleet had arrived in full force.

A city’s worth of eyes turned toward the sea, and what they beheld would have shaken any ordinary warrior. Hundreds of mighty and sleek ships stretched across the waters like an unbreakable tide. The Garvan navy had ruled the Serpent Sea for decades, keeping even the Hammerfest Empire in check with its relentless strategies and unparalleled seamanship. And now, all of that power had come to bear down upon Treon.

It was not the entirety of the Southern Navy Group, as some ships had to stay behind to protect the otherwise vulnerable cities. It was also smaller in number than it might have been without the reckless success of a few rebel sailors. Still, it was a formidable force.

Jean did not blink. She did not waver. Fear was a weapon she would never hand to her enemies.

“They’re about to test us,” she said, watching as the nearest ships adjusted position. “Brace.”

The bombardment began.

Thunder echoed across the city as the Garvan cannons roared. The first wave struck the shimmering wards she had cast only minutes before. The impact rattled the walls, and a few younger mages flinched, their instincts screaming at them to duck or flee. But the wards held.

No crack opened, and no breach appeared for them to take advantage of.

After a few minutes, the shelling slowed, and Jean allowed herself a small smile. The opening volley had been a test, and given its complete failure, they would need to rethink their approach. Good. That gives us an opening.

Jean turned to the gunners below. “Return fire.”

A second later, Treon answered the attack in kind.

The alchemically treated rounds glowed faintly through the sky, and hundreds of projectiles hurtled toward the Garvan fleet.

Of course, the ships had defenses of their own. The larger vessels had powerful warding sigils and skilled mages aboard who sought to counteract the attacks. Some of the shots struck shimmering shields, deflecting harmlessly into the sea.

But not all of them.

Jean watched with satisfaction as a dozen ships—those closest to the city—shuddered under the impact. Their wards, having been sabotaged before the battle even began, collapsed like shattered glass. Cannonballs punched through hulls, igniting alchemical fires that spread rapidly across their decks. Masts toppled, explosions rocked the water, and in the span of mere moments, they were sinking beneath the waves.

A cheer rose from the Revolution’s forces. The city’s defenders roared in triumph, their spirits bolstered. The navy of Treon was outmatched in numbers, but with the advantage of preparation, superior tactics, and sheer will, they had struck the first true blow.

Jean allowed herself a single exhale of relief. Morale would hold now, for a time.

But her work was not yet done.

She took to the skies once more, effortlessly lifting into the air and surveying the battlefield below. From her vantage point, she could see the shifting formations of the Garvan fleet as they adjusted to the new reality. The remaining ships pulled into tighter lines, angling for a more sustained bombardment. The real battle was only beginning.

Jean felt the pull of magic, the temptation to break from the safety of the wards and rain destruction upon the enemy fleet herself. She could do it. She had spells capable of ripping through entire decks, of calling lightning down with pinpoint accuracy. She could obliterate a dozen ships before they could even react.

But she didn’t.

Her eyes narrowed as she turned her attention inward. Somewhere, hidden within the city, was a greater threat. A Champion-tier mage.

Amelia had warned her. The one who had fled from Hassel was likely to come here, lurking in the shadows, waiting for the moment to strike. If she left the city’s wards and exposed herself, she would be giving him the opportunity he sought.

No. Jean had a different hunt to attend to.

She cast one last glance at the battle below, the flames licking the water, the cries of wounded sailors, and the joy of her men at the minor victory.

Then, she put it all out of her mind. It was time to flush out the rat.

Jean hovered silently over Treon, stretching her senses to their limits as she meticulously scanned every corner of the city below. Her usual tactic—a sensory spell designed to locate large mana signatures—would likely prove ineffective here. Any mage capable of reaching Champion status knew how to contain and conceal their power expertly. This adversary would not reveal himself so easily.

She floated gently above the cityscape, narrowing her eyes in deep contemplation. The wards she had constructed hummed softly in the back of her awareness, reassuring, though she knew they were not infallible. This opponent was cunning and resourceful. If conventional methods of detection wouldn't work, she would need to rely on something entirely unexpected—something even another Champion would fail to anticipate.

Deciding quickly, Jean turned sharply toward the naval barracks. She streaked through the air, her robes whipping in the wind behind her. She kept low, almost skimming the roofs, not wanting to give her enemy notice that she was still looking for him.

Soon, the chaotic bustle of the Navy district came into view. Men shouted orders and moved swiftly, hauling crates of munitions and repairing damaged equipment from earlier skirmishes. The energy here was frantic yet disciplined. They’ve been doing good work. They had to make it up as they went since they didn’t have any real structure to base themselves upon as the Army did. The results are very promising.

Jean landed in the middle of the bustle with practiced grace, her feet barely touching the cobblestone streets before she strode forward purposefully. Soldiers and sailors scurried around her, widening their eyes in recognition, though none dared interrupt her path. She nodded approvingly, glad that discipline was holding strong.

She walked deeper into the barracks until she reached a cluster of sailors gathered around an open space. Ignoring the startled murmurs at her sudden arrival, Jean’s gaze pierced through the group, locking onto the young face she sought.

"I need Longs," she stated simply.

A startled yelp sounded from within the crowd, followed by a ripple of whispers as the young sailor turned sharply, wide-eyed and pale. David Longs, barely twenty and already famed—or perhaps cursed—for his uncanny talent for glimpsing the future. Jean’s lips curled slightly, her smile widening at the obvious dread spreading over his face. She had worked the young man to the bone a few months before to build the Divination Division, and he likely had some traumatic memories of her.

“Now,” she added firmly. No matter what he would have liked, the Revolution came first.

A minute later, she had commandeered a small room, sparse and dimly lit. Jean stood confidently in its center, hands folded calmly as David shifted uneasily near the door. Beside him stood Captain Charry, who had insisted on accompanying his young subordinate, clearly protective and wary.

“What exactly do you need from him, Archmage?” Charry asked bluntly, his eyes narrowed.

Jean studied the young seer quietly. David Longs was sweating, pale as a ghost. It was clear he had little desire to be in her presence, let alone involved in her affairs. She sighed, making her tone soft and reassuring. “Relax, Longs. I don’t need you to see anything yourself. I merely wish to borrow your unique mana channels to cycle my power through you.”

David swallowed audibly, clearly uncertain. “But why—?”

“Because,” Jean explained patiently, “I’m seeking an enemy that can conceal mana, hide his presence, shield his spells. But you, David, perceive possibilities and futures—a dimension far more elusive to conventional magic. If I cycle my mana through you, it might allow me to catch glimpses through your ability.”

Charry crossed his arms, still cautious. “Will it harm him?”

Jean shook her head sincerely. If she had been a lesser mage or hadn’t spent months studying him, then maybe, but that wasn’t the case. “No harm will come to him. I swear it.”

David glanced hesitantly to his captain, who finally relented with a nod. The young seer inhaled deeply and nodded in resignation. “All right. But…please be careful.”

“I always am,” Jean grumbled.

Stepping forward, she reached out her hand, fingers glowing softly as she placed them on David’s arm. Her mana entered him cautiously, slowly intertwining with his natural flow, creating a delicate harmony. Jean was careful and meticulous, like threading a fine needle through the tapestry of possibility.

Her senses expanded dramatically. Paths branched and splintered around her, infinite outcomes blooming into countless futures. It was dizzying, even for a mage of her caliber, but she pressed on, maintaining control as she focused her intent.

Show me what I seek, she demanded silently.

Reality twisted and unraveled before her mind’s eye, scenes flickering and shifting rapidly. She saw flashes of battles, figures darting through shadows, and suddenly—a sharp clarity. The old Adventurers' Guild. The structure was mostly abandoned after their rebellion and was an ideal place to hide, perfect for laying traps and defenses.

Jean tightened her grip slightly, solidifying the vision.

Inside the Guild, a figure stood cloaked in shadows, emanating dark confidence. He turned, his hooded face just barely visible in flickering torchlight. Though she couldn’t make out his features clearly, she felt the unmistakable pressure of his mana signature. This was the Champion mage Amelia had warned her about—the infiltrator from Hassel.

Her focus snapped back to the present. Releasing David’s arm gently, she let her mana recede carefully, leaving the young seer unharmed but breathless.

“Did you get what you needed?” Charry asked.

Jean nodded curtly, her eyes already distant, locked onto the mental image of her prey. “I have found him.”

Charry’s expression hardened. “Will you confront him alone?”

Jean met his eyes. “I must. A Champion-tier mage duel is no place for ordinary soldiers.” She turned towards David, her voice gentler. “You did well, Longs. Rest now. You've earned it.”

Without waiting for further response, she approached the open window and leapt out into the open sky, leaving the barracks and the two sailors behind in stunned silence. She soared high, adrenaline surging through her veins, the anticipation of battle sharpening every nerve.

The city flashed below as she sped towards the old Adventurers' Guild. Jean knew this fight would define everything. Her heart raced—not with fear, but exhilaration. It had been far too long since she'd faced an opponent who could truly challenge her abilities. The enemy mage thought he had chosen the perfect battleground, but Jean was ready.

Treon was hers to protect. And no Champion, no matter how powerful, would bring it harm.

Chapter 175 - Root Them Out - Jean 11

Jean soared quietly above Treon. From below, any observer would see nothing more than the Archmage of the Revolution watching over the skies. Yet she was furiously working.

Her true attention was inward as she meticulously arranged a complex weave of spells, preparing for just about any possibility. Anything and everything was good, as she didn’t know what would work. From ancient curses to new experimental charms she had yet to complete, Jean wouldn’t leave a single stone unturned.

Usually, she wouldn’t go through this much effort since she was more than capable of casting on the fly, but knowing that she was about to face a Champion-tier mage was enough for her to pull all the stops.

Truth was, Jean knew distressingly little about the man hiding within the old Adventurer’s Guild. Amelia’s description had given her a single possible weakness, and she was trying her best to come up with something to exploit it.

The mage had required Hassel’s blood wards to be lowered before he could escape. Jean didn't know everything about such magic—it was a realm she'd purposefully avoided, disgusted by its cruel and oppressive requirements—but she understood its principles. Blood wards were formidable, fueled by life itself, sealing away certain forms of magic by binding them in sacrifice. If her enemy couldn’t escape them despite being able to flee even with Leonard nearby, that meant it was a real weakness.

Jean had no intention of resorting to blood magic herself. The very notion turned her stomach, and sacrificing the innocent was anathema to the Revolution’s principles. Yet, the foundational theory could be mimicked, at least temporarily. She smiled grimly at the irony; she would defeat darkness with a spell crafted to imitate the very thing she abhorred.

Her preparations eventually came to fruition. Jean abruptly halted her flight two hundred feet above the dilapidated guild hall, no longer needing to feign disinterest. Once she was ready, she simultaneously released all of her hidden seals.

Thousands of shimmering, glowing symbols appeared instantly in the air, swirling into existence around the building and forming a dense network of interconnected magic circles. The spell ignited in spectacular fashion, with lines of radiant energy erupting skyward from each circle and converging above to create an impenetrable dome of shimmering white mana.

While the barrier couldn’t really be compared to a blood ward, it worked on the same exclusionary principle. Where the foul magics used sacrifice as the ultimate power source and principle, Jean made it so anything attempting to pass would need to sacrifice something. It was a clever inversion of the magical principle, though not out that would hold up against a sustained attack. I only need to stop him for a few seconds. Once I engage, it will end quickly.

An explosion of thick, oily darkness immediately surged from within the guild. Jean felt a shiver of revulsion ripple through her at its feel. The sudden entrapment caught the enemy off-guard, and he panicked, racing upwards, only to slam into the radiant dome. It flexed but held firm, bouncing the dark entity back into the guild as its requirements hadn’t been met.

Jean descended, stopping above the bubbling darkness. Her crystal-clear voice, devoid of any hint of fear, echoed in the still air. “You are under arrest for conspiracy and plotting against the Revolution,” she stated evenly, eyes narrowed as she watched the darkness writhe.

The roiling cloud reluctantly solidified into a man. He stood with exaggerated arrogance, pushing back his long, oily hair and disdainfully turning his sallow nose upward. A sneer curled his thin lips.

“You think yourself strong enough to face me, little Archmage?” he taunted, dripping with contempt. "You may have caught me by surprise, but your pathetic barrier will not hold me long. Once I break it, I won’t merely end your life—I’ll make you watch as everything you’ve worked for falls apart.”

Jean met his venomous words with icy composure. “Your threats are as hollow as your magic is vile,” she responded calmly. “Surrender, and I might consider sparing your life.”

He sneered as oily strands of darkness slithered across his sallow features. “Such arrogance from a mere child.”

“And yet,” Jean replied, floating downward until she hovered a mere twenty feet from him, power crackling visibly around her form, “you hid. You did your best to avoid my notice.”

His nose flared with prideful disdain, and his eyes glinted malevolently. He lifted a hand, and darkness pooled grotesquely in his palm. “You think yourself powerful enough to judge me? Then taste the true nature of despair!”

He thrust his hand forward, and a torrent of darkness erupted, twisting into a dozen complex curses. They slithered through the air, constantly evolving into intricate patterns of corrupting magic meant to pierce her defenses. Despite herself, Jean had to admit it was an impressive display of skill. He just needs better lines. This is like fighting a B-list villain from one of Margaret’s novels.

Still, she reacted quickly, weaving counterspells into the fabric of the air around her. The moment their magic met, she felt her eyes widen at what she was feeling. This was not ordinary darkness magic; it felt remarkably like the Void, yet somehow stable.

If I wasn’t using Pure Casting, he’d have simply blown through anything I could do.

The mage attacked repeatedly, each time with more complex and corrosive spells. His offensive continued to build up, leaving trails of oily residue that Jean had to dismantle methodically, lest he turn the environment into a deadly trap. As their dance unfolded and it became clear that neither would triumph in the first round, Jean attempted to make him talk.

“You’ve bound the Void,” she murmured, part disgusted, part intrigued by his audacity. "You draw power directly from its corruption without being consumed?"

He grinned viciously, not a hint of madness dancing behind his eyes. “Surprised, little girl? I've tamed the abyss. Your petty rebellion is hopeless against the infinite power I now command!”

Jean’s gaze hardened. She had faced the Void before, but she had never seen anything like this. Through sheer arrogance, this mage had discovered a way to harness its corrupting power without losing himself entirely. But such filth was not something the new world they were building could afford to tolerate.

A shift occurred in Jean’s mind. Her initial intent to capture and question this man evaporated, replaced by a grim determination. This wasn’t a criminal; it was a cancerous entity that needed to be excised from existence.

“You’ve deluded yourself,” She said coldly, mana coalescing in complex, vibrant arrays around her. “You are being used by the Void and have mistaken it for control. Allow me to demonstrate the difference between your false power and true mastery.”

With that declaration, Jean gathered her vast mana reserves, preparing to unleash the spells she had been working on and obliterate him utterly. The air trembled in anticipation of the profound magic she was about to unleash.

Still, before she went ahead, she decided to ask one last question. “Who are you, and who do you work for?” Jean demanded coolly.

Surprisingly, he actually answered. “My name is Polier. Remember it well, as it’s the last name you'll ever hear.”

He’d avoided the second portion of her question, but she’d expected it. Fortunately, she could get an answer just as easily by seeing how he’d react.

Tilting her head slightly, she pinned him with the most unimpressed look she could muster. “You serve Duke Nevielle, don’t you? The Prime Minister would be displeased if he knew you’d been found out so easily.”

Polier’s sneer faltered briefly, replaced by surprise, swiftly masked by fury. “You know less than you believe. My role is not that of a mere servant. I am the one pulling the strings.”

Jean only hummed, using the time to complete her preparations. He was a bad liar, which shouldn’t have shocked her. Those who could use magic to hide their presence often had atrophied social skills. She should know, given that it happened to her, too.

“You’re confident for someone trapped within my ward,” She observed, just to keep him talking.

“And you are arrogant to think mere sealing circles can bind me.” Polier grunted, thrusting his hand forward. Oily darkness surged forth, forming grotesque shapes that clawed at Jean’s barrier.

The first few attacks merely fizzled before they could reach her, proving that her insights into his casting style were correct and that her test wards were on the right path. However, as he persisted, cracks began forming in the complex array of symbols. Jean immediately reinforced her defenses, remaining carefully neutral even as the added information churned in her mind.

“Your magic isn’t actually Void, despite you drawing power from it. You’re filtering it somehow.” She commented, analyzing the putrid essence of Polier’s magic.

He laughed arrogantly, evidently still sure of himself. “You’re close. I have seen the Abyss look back, but unlike the fools who succumb to madness, I’ve mastered it. I drink deep of the Void’s strength without losing myself.”

“Power without purpose is merely waiting for corruption,” Jean retorted and finally let go.

Her first real attack reached him as he shattered through one of her outer wards. Shimmering golden spears, intricately woven from Light and Arcane magic, darted toward him. Polier countered with shadowy tendrils, corrupting the spears mid-flight, the golden constructs dissolving into a dark sludge that dripped downward.

“You see?” Polier mocked, sweeping forward with a wave of cloying darkness. “Your magic is elegant but weak. Even the Light will not save you. You cannot compete against the raw potential of the Void.”

Jean gracefully evaded, weaving through his attacks and analyzing their every detail. Each of his curses, each wave of tainted magic, had a distinct, oily texture, and she was sure that was the key to unraveling the mystery.

“You can feel it, can’t you?” Polier taunted, catching the flicker of realization in her eyes. “The infinite depth of power I command. Surrender to me, and I’ll spare you the humiliation of a defeat worse than death.”

Jean narrowed her eyes, allowing his arrogance to fuel her determination. “You’ve grasped power but sacrificed your humanity,” she countered sharply, weaving defensive and offensive circles simultaneously. “You’re little better than a voidling wrapped in flesh.”

Polier laughed harshly. “Humanity? What a small-minded ideal. The only thing that matters is power. I have reached beyond what anyone else could ever imagine! I am the only one to ever bend the Void to my will!”

Jean countered again, sending chains of golden light, which wrapped around his form, momentarily containing his darkness. But soon, the oily taint seeped out, corroding the chains into nothing.

“You rely too much on purity,” Polier mocked. “Perfection is weakness. Corruption grants resilience.”

Jean’s lips twisted slightly, affecting displeasure while masking her realization. She had the last tassel of the puzzle now, and he’d given it to her himself. This is why villainous monologues are such a bad idea.

Blood wards embodied sacrifice, requiring life to empower their seals. Polier would never embrace or replicate this principle, too consumed by his own power. She allowed most of the spells she’d kept ready to dissipate, as she’d need the mana for this.

Reaching into her spatial realm, Jean withdrew a small, glowing seed—a creation she had labored upon for hundreds of hours over the years, originally intended as a cornerstone of renewal and hope. It was to be a cure for the Void’s corruption of unwilling victims, but she’d never managed to get it to work just right, given the absence of the element after the Incursion was defeated. It was only fitting that it would be useful now.

Polier noticed, sneering. “A seed? Desperation suits you poorly, girl.”

“Sacrifice,” Jean whispered, ignoring his taunts. “That’s the essence you’ll never grasp.”

She closed her eyes, whispering softly to the seed—a gentle apology, a farewell—and then crushed it between her fingers. The seed's destruction unleashed a surge of potent, pure energy, triggering the formation of an entirely new, radiant spell around Polier.

“Impossible!” He roared, suddenly trapped by countless shimmering symbols that revolved around him, feeding off Jean's sacrifice. He thrashed in vain, his tainted darkness powerless to erode the purity born from genuine sacrifice.

“You understand nothing of true belief,” Jean said, stepping closer, her voice unyielding. “This is the principle beyond your corrupted power. This is the difference between strength and madness.”

Polier’s expression contorted into desperation. “You cannot do this! Duke Nevielle will—”

Jean cut him off, voice cold and unforgiving. “Nevielle will answer for his crimes soon enough. Your journey ends here.”

She closed her fist, the cage collapsing into a single, infinitesimal point of light, erasing Polier completely. Silence fell, and the oppressive darkness vanished, leaving only Jean hovering in the radiant afterglow.

Chapter 176 - Deep Below - Charry 10

Charry stared out from the balcony, watching the city’s wards flare and shimmer under the occasional attack.

The siege had initially been nerve-wracking, but beyond the light show at the city’s center a while ago, it had settled into a routine. The Garvan Fleet occasionally probed the wards, adjusting their output and trying to find a weak spot, while the Revolutionaries reloaded their cannons and punished any ship that got too close.

Most of his crew was gathered below in the temporary barracks they’d been assigned. It was a cramped, dusty space—exactly what one would expect from a hurried attempt to shelter as many sailors as possible. Charry had grown accustomed to the freedom of the sea, and he might have typically held a grudge about the conditions, but after his last brush with death, he had a new appreciation for even the smallest comforts.

The official order from the War Council was that the Wavebreaker’s crew had earned a reprieve, or at least an option to sit out the more extreme dangers. Charry, however, wasn’t alone in his conviction to continue helping—none of them wanted to idle behind walls while the city and the cause they’d fought for were at risk.

He pivoted on his heel and descended a narrow ladder into the old crew rooms. Dust and stale ale filled the air, and the overhead lantern flickered, casting light on rows of hammocks and hastily arranged bunks. The men were gathered near the center, sprawled on crates or leaning against barrels. All eyes turned to him in anticipation.

Rupert beckoned him over. “I just heard through the grapevine that Lady Jean has defeated the infiltrator. It seems David’s help was really necessary.”

Charry nodded, leaning on the wall. “I’m not surprised; she seemed very determined. But that doesn’t mean it’s over. There is much to do.”

“Hmph,” came a grunt from Anton. “What’s the next suicidal mission?”

“We need to do something to deal with the blockade,” Charry replied, not bothering to refute the accusation. “The ships surround the harbor so densely that we have lost control of the upper river. If this continues, we’re not the only ones in danger—any of Garva’s captains can simply sail up the Great Slitherer and devastate half the countryside. We might be safe in Treon, but smaller settlements won’t be.”

“The Duke’s cunning like that,” Anton agreed, fiddling with a piece of rope. Sometimes, Charry forgot the dwarf was actually from Garva and had fought in its military before being banished. “He’ll push the main revolutionary forces back here, then strike at the less-defended towns. Create a wave of refugees, starve us of resources, and force us to decide whether to leave them out of the wards and condemn them to their deaths or risk taking in thousands of unknowns with a subsequent flood of saboteurs.”

All around heads nodded. These men were not strangers to Garva’s cruelty. Many had lost friends to his scorched-earth tactics up along the southern coasts. There was no question that a blockade was only one part of the noose.

“We can’t break his blockade by brute force,” Charry continued. “His navy is better equipped and more numerous. If that were possible, Lady Jean would’ve done it by now.”

“We’ve all seen the charred wrecks along the riverbank. Our own saboteurs must’ve breached the hull runes, or else those galleons wouldn’t have sunk so easily.” Another of his men commented.

“That only goes so far,” Anton said, scowling. “Eventually, they’ll toughen up their security and find all the traps we left behind. We need something else.”

A silence fell. In that hush, Charry could practically hear his men’s thoughts. They had risked their lives to slow the enemy for months, so how could they stand idle now? But the blockade was formidable—an arm of steel around Treon.

Several “What if” suggestions were tossed around, ranging from dangerously foolish to downright impossible. Some recommended further sabotage—divers sneaking up at night with charges or perhaps stoking a fire in the flagship’s powder hold. Others discussed forging alliances with the southern pirates, hoping to pit them against Garva. But each plan seemed half-baked or so simple that the enemy would know to expect it.

Charry listened, allowing them to express their frustrations. It was better than leaving them to stew in hopelessness. “We’ll come up with something,” he said finally, “but we need more information or a special resource. Blindly throwing ourselves at that blockade will only get us all killed. I’ll head to the castle and see what I can get them to give us. Maybe we’ll be lucky, and the alchemists will have cooked up something.”

His men murmured in agreement, though it was obvious they were skeptical. It was unlikely the alchemists had some secret weapon that wasn’t already in use, after all.

A knock interrupted him, and the door swung open, revealing a tall figure in dark vestments. Torchlight caught the golden trim of his white cloak, highlighting a sword-shaped symbol that glimmered at the collar. The moment Charry’s eyes landed on that symbol, he stiffened to attention.

Vicar Damien. Charry recognized him immediately—the War Council’s spiritual voice in public affairs, but also rumored to be the Grand Marshal’s agent for… less savory operations. He was known as a polite, kind man on the surface, but his name had been whispered in the aftermath of certain incidents.

Every man in the cramped barracks stood to attention with a crisp salute.

Damien smiled disarmingly and waved them down. “At ease. I’m sorry to intrude on you unannounced.”

“No intrusion at all, Vicar,” Charry said, stepping forward. “We’re only discussing, well…” He hesitated. Was it wise to tell Damien about their plans? The man likely wouldn’t appreciate rogue actions.

But Damien’s pleasant demeanor never shifted. “I have an idea of the subject,” he said lightly, “and I’ve come precisely to share news of a mission I believe you’ll find interesting.”

Charry’s eyebrows shot up. Damien wasn’t part of the navy’s chain of command, which meant the order came from the highest echelons of the Revolutionary Army. A visit from him meant something significant, probably dangerous. It could be the perfect opportunity for the Wavebreaker’s crew to prove their worth once again.

“I’m aware that your prior service would justify a less hazardous role in logistics. But your consistent valor has gained attention. And I know breaking the blockade is close to your hearts.” The Vicar offered a gentle smile. “I can’t force you, but I have reason to believe this mission might change the situation on our waters dramatically.”

Charry exchanged glances with Anton. The entire crew seemed to lean forward as one. There was little hesitation in Charry’s mind. “We’re listening, Vicar,” he said softly.

Damien nodded. “Good. Then, gather your gear. We’ll speak more en route.”

—

Damp stone and slow-dripping water clogged Charry’s nose as he led his men deep into Treon’s underbelly. Their footsteps echoed across slick stone floors, illuminated only by the occasional glow of a half-dead lantern or flickering mage light. The faint roar of a far-off subterranean current occasionally rumbled around them.

“This is… much grander than I imagined,” Anton murmured, walking under an archway.

Charry nodded, equally impressed. He had lived in Treon for months but never suspected that the city’s sewers ran so deep. The architecture was ancient, with each tunnel lined with broad stones smoothed by centuries of flowing water. Occasionally, runic carvings appeared near intersections—perhaps remnants of the old wards. However, the city had clearly abandoned these depths, as they seemed to have gone unused for centuries.

Damien had escorted them part of the way before quietly vanishing after giving him a few pointed instructions. Charry was not entirely certain he appreciated the secrecy, but he trusted Vicar Damien’s authority. If the War Council required discretion, so be it.

The route was marked on rough parchment: a maze of lines, cross-hatched passages, and scribbled warnings about cave-ins or underwater channels. The group followed it carefully, stepping over collapsed columns, decaying wooden bridges, and brackish puddles. Every so often, Charry glanced back to ensure none of his men were lagging or lost.

They pressed on for miles. The tunnels gradually transformed from purely man-made corridors into more uneven, natural passages. In some areas, the stone gave way to raw earth, exposing roots snaking down from whatever forest or farmland lay far above. The air became heavier with moisture and a subtle magical hum.

“This must be at least seven centuries old,” Anton mused after stopping to check a cracked runestone sticking out of the wall. “Probably built back when Treon was wealthy off of the southern trade and didn’t have competition in Garva and Nevielle.”

Charry nodded. “You might be right. It feels like we’re walking through the bones of a dead empire.”

Before they reached their destination, they had to traverse a final stretch where the brick arches ended abruptly. The path sloped sharply downward, flanked by slimy walls that glistened under their lanterns. A swirl of cold, dank air drifted up, prickling Charry’s skin. He couldn’t help but wonder how many living souls had ventured this far in the past century.

At last, they emerged into a cavernous chamber. The darkness within was oppressive, and the flicker of their lanterns was barely enough to illuminate their immediate surroundings. Dripping water echoed from unseen recesses in the ceiling. Then, as they climbed a short ledge, an ethereal glow began to illuminate the chamber’s depths.

Charry and his men beheld a sight that stole their breath. Far below, a crystalline lake stretched out like liquid silver. Pale luminescent algae clung to the walls around it, creating waves of shimmering light that danced across the rippling surface. The air here was warmer.

“Light above,” Rupert breathed, staring at the hundreds of silver stalactites hanging above, reflecting the lake’s light.

The spectacle was almost hypnotic—beautiful, yet somehow foreboding. They had not come merely to admire the scenery, though. According to the Vicar, beyond these waters lay a hidden reservoir where the older, more intelligent Water Elementals could be negotiated with. If they succeeded, they would become a crucial asset in undermining Garva’s blockade—or at least shifting the balance at sea.

He stepped forward to the edge of the ledge, the water shimmering below. “We shouldn’t all go,” he declared. "I’ll take Anton and Rupert with me. The rest of you should guard the path to make sure nothing can interrupt the negotiations.”

“They say Water Elementals can be fickle,” Bollard said quietly. “They might just drown you.”

Charry met his gaze. “Better to try and bargain than let Garva strangle the revolution. We came all this way, so let’s see it through.”

Thus, Charry and his chosen men began to make their careful descent. I can’t say I ever expected to be sent on a diplomatic mission, especially one where I’d have to speak with water spirits, but it’s better than sitting around and doing nothing.

As they neared the bottom, the silver glow of the lake rippled across their faces. The cavern’s vast expanse loomed overhead, and a silent tension settled on them.

Charry steadied himself, inhaling the moist subterranean air. He set his jaw, guiding his men forward until they stood at the water’s edge.

Taking a handful of the sacred ashes the Vicar had given him, Charry sprinkled them in the water, “A representative of the Lands of Men has come to ask for parley.” He carefully intoned before falling silent.

That was the extent of the preparation he had been given. Everything else would be up to him since there was no reliable account of successful negotiations with the Great Slitherer’s spirits.

Some men might see it as an impossible task, but Charry hadn’t hesitated to take it on. Ever since that day at Margì, when they defended against the subterranean advance of the enemy, he’d shed his fear of death.

If the Light wanted to claim him, he’d welcome it, but until then, he’d fulfill his duty to the Revolution.

Chapter 177 - The Cavalry - Charry 11

Charry’s fingers drummed restlessly on the hilt of his knife belt. He and Anton stood side by side at the lake’s edge while Rupert hovered a little behind, rubbing his sweaty hands on his pants to get a better grip on his gun. Though it was only a token gesture—wielding a firearm against water spirits was laughable—Charry understood the need to cling to a shred of power.

The cavern’s stillness amplified every shuffle and breath, each quiet drip from the stalactites above, making the wait even more tense than it had to be.

Then, a bubble rose from the center of the underground lake, breaking the silence with a soft plop. More bubbles followed, each larger than the last, until suddenly, the entire surface began to churn. Waves lapped at the rocky shore, splattering Charry’s boots with cold droplets.

Anton cursed under his breath, stepping back quickly when a surge of foam rushed over his feet. “Never liked water magic… it’s too damn unpredictable,” he muttered.

Charry spared him a sympathetic glance. He couldn’t deny that a primal fear gnawed at his mind as the waves swelled. The darkness of this underground reservoir, combined with the swirling water, brought memories of storms at sea, but this time, he had no ship to see him through.

Behind them, Rupert’s knuckles turned white around the gun. “We could call it off,” he hissed, glancing nervously from side to side. “We don’t even know if it will listen to us.”

Charry felt the urge to retreat. It was better to regroup than to lose any men. However, they had come too far. The revolution needed this, or the enemy would have a free hand over the countryside. Even if the Water Elementals didn’t care about human matters, he had to make the attempt. Gathering his courage, Charry straightened his shoulders and raised his voice to speak once more.

“We come in peace!” he called out, trying to steady the quiver in his tone. “We seek to parley with the spirits!”

As if in answer, the roiling water surged higher, sending a sudden wave crashing mere inches from Charry’s boots. He clenched his jaw, forcing himself not to step back. Anton drew a sharp breath, eyes darting to Charry in silent question. He knew the dwarf would like nothing more than to leave, but it was too late.

Something darted beneath the surface so quickly that Charry only caught a fleeting glimpse of deeper turquoise. Another swirl appeared a dozen yards away, followed by yet another behind it. The water grew restless, swirling in intricate patterns that defied normal currents.

A pulse of mana thrummed in the chamber, raising the hair on Charry’s arms. They’re here, he thought, swallowing tightly. No turning back now.

A bulge started to form in the water just a few yards offshore. It thickened, defying gravity, warping into a mound that rose waist-high above the lake. Water dripped from it like a waterfall in reverse. A second later, it shaped itself into a vaguely humanoid figure. Arms, torso, and a suggestion of a head all emerged, but where a face might be, rippling folds of liquid shimmered, never settling in place.

Rupert let out a grunt, though he kept his finger off the gun trigger. Anton took another step back, tense as a drawn bowstring, but Charry forced himself to stand tall. They won’t respect us if we appear like scared children. No matter that, they could kill us all by flooding the sewers.

When the spirit spoke, it resembled a chorus of bubbles rising from the depths. “You... come... to our domain.” Each word resonated, echoing off the stone walls. “Why?”

Charry inclined his head respectfully. “I am a Captain of the Revolutionary Navy here to parlay. We seek your assistance against the ships that blockade the city of Treon. Our people are threatened—there is war. We need the waters to rise against those who would keep us trapped.”

“War.” The spirit’s head tilted, watery features rippling as though in thought. “We have… seen your conflict. We have tasted blood in the tides, but these ships do not foul the waters. The ancient contract… forbids our wrath upon them.”

Charry frowned, aware that old treaties bound water spirits to neutrality provided the ships in question adhered to specific codes—such as avoiding waste disposal in the Slitherer or engaging in foul magic that contaminated the water. After all, these codes allowed the Navy to function in the first place.

“I… know about the treaty,” he admitted, choosing his words carefully. “But these vessels belong to Duke Garva, not Treon. The old contract was signed between Treon’s lord and the spirit courts. The kingdom of Haylich no longer holds authority here; Treon is part of the Revolution now.”

A subtle shift in the spirit’s posture suggested curiosity, which he knew to be an affected mannerism, and he raised his evaluation from a Mid-tier spirit to a High-tier one. “The Slithering Father has recognized Haylich’s authority for centuries. The waters were open to them. Your conflict changes nothing—this is your mortal quarrel.”

Charry gritted his teeth. He had hoped this would be enough, but apparently not. “I beg to differ. The rightful master of this domain is Treon’s recognized leader, and that is no longer the king of Haylich. The revolution stands in for the old monarchy. Therefore, the treaty’s benefits should pass to us, not them. If you choose to remain ‘neutral,’ you are—unintentionally—taking their side.”

He was unsure if his logic would stand up to a centuries-old agreement, but the Vicar had been sure it would be enough to get him an in. The water elemental loomed, silent for a long moment as ripples formed at its base. Then, it spoke again, somehow expressing a sense of amusement.

“A technicality, mortal. The Slithering Father has let Haylich’s ships traverse her waters for so many of your lifetimes. The treaty’s meaning does not vanish because you want it to. We cannot simply kill them because you wish it.”

For a moment, Charry felt his heart sink. But then the elemental continued. “But that is only the case as long as the treaty stands. As a matter of law, you are correct that the signee was the ancient lord of Treon, and it is whoever holds that position that has power over the contract. If that person dissolves the old bond and forms a new one, we might be able to intervene.”

“We might… be open to new negotiations,” Charry said slowly, “so long as we can get assurances that you won’t attack us the moment the old treaty is annulled.”

Though the spirit had no face, Charry sensed an approximation of a nod. “We can talk about that. But for us to stir from neutrality, you must open the way for the Slithering Father. A canal to the eastern sea so that his water may flow beyond the old boundaries. If you agree to that, we shall remove these ships that block your city’s harbor.”

Charry almost sagged with relief. A canal was a significant undertaking, but it might be worth it if it gave them the allies they desperately needed. “We will do our part,” he managed, voice steady. “In the name of the Revolution.”

That afternoon, Charry found himself back on the surface, escorted by Damien through Treon’s battered streets. Less than four hours ago, he had been underground, conversing with an elemental that could destroy an armored warship. Considering how limited his diplomatic training was, he felt he’d done a good job.

Now he just needed the War Council to approve it.

The meeting room was lit by torchlight. A long wooden table ran the length of the chamber, marred by countless marks of quill points and spilled ink. Maps, letters, and half-finished cups of spiced tea cluttered the corners.

Damien gestured for Charry to enter and pointed to an empty chair near the far end of the table. He recognized many faces around the table: Sir Gerard, who wielded nominal power over Treon and would be the one to approve the new treaty; Old Lia, who had provided his crew with so many wonderful explosives; and, surprisingly, Jean the Archmage herself, seemingly unfazed by the terrible battle she had just fought.

Gerard’s gaze flicked toward Charry. “Report quickly, if you please. Time is short.”

Charry nodded, steeling himself. “We have secured a preliminary agreement with the Water Elementals,” he began, exuding more confidence than he truly felt. “They’re willing to abandon their neutrality and assist us in disrupting Garva’s blockade. In exchange, they want a new canal carved through the Darkwood, connecting the Great Slitherer to the Green Sea.”

A moment of silence fell. Lia’s brow knitted. “A new canal through the Darkwood? That’s a monumental labor—would take thousands of men months, maybe years.”

“Yet if the payoff is the blockade’s destruction, the entire war could shift. And if we used the Mage corps, we might get it done in weeks.” Jean commented.

Damien nodded. “The spirits want to expand their domain and gain more direct contact with the oceans. It’s a fair demand in their eyes, and I believe it is within our power to agree. The Grand Marshal has vested the War Council with the necessary authority.”

Gerard rubbed his temple, exhaling in frustration. “This is not an easy promise to fulfill. But it might be the only chance we’ve got to break out from this stalemate. Our current projections would see us victorious, but it would take us weeks to weaken the Garvan Navy.”

“How have you convinced them to break the pact?” Jean asked eventually.

Charry looked at Damien, who nodded. “Well, it was just a matter of convincing them that the real holder of the contract was not the Count of Treon but whoever holds the city. From there, I had to get a promise they wouldn’t attack if the contract was broken on our side.”

Days later, Charry found himself atop Treon’s battlements, overlooking the Great Slitherer and the row of enemy vessels bobbing in a near-semicircle around Treon’s harbor. Cannon smoke lingered in the air, irritating his nostrils. The revolution’s artillery was inadequate compared to the lines of well-armed galleons, but they fired relentlessly—seizing any opportunity to keep Garva’s ships at bay, even for a moment.

“How’s your aim?” Charry asked one of the gun captains, shouting above the din.

The man grimaced. “Marginal at best, sir! We’re too far to do real damage. They’re not dumb enough to sail in close after we sunk their last run.”

Charry nodded, scanning the waters. Indeed, the blockade kept its distance, content to let time and attrition do their work. He was about to bark an order for the next volley when he saw something that made him smile.

Beyond the anchored line of ships, the river began to churn. At first, it was faint, just a shimmer under the surface. Then the water started to froth.

“What in the—?” one of the gunmen muttered, eyebrows shooting up.

They’ve come through, then. The new contract has been signed.

Enemy sailors scrambled on deck, hoisting sails, trying to reposition their vessels. An echoing horn sounded, presumably their officer signaling for the blockade to tighten. But it was too late.

Suddenly, a colossal shape broke the surface—vague at first but rapidly coalescing into a form as tall as the mainmast of a warship, a seething column of water that glinted under the midday sun.

Cheers erupted around Charry as many on Treon’s battlements realized what it meant. Gunners scrambled to re-aim, seeking to exploit the enemy’s sudden panic. Cannon fire boomed, but it was drowned out by a monstrous surge of water that rolled toward the blockade, unstoppable.

“They’re here,” Charry heard the gunner whisper. “The elementals have joined the fray.”

Somewhere behind him, an officer yelled orders to prepare an immediate barrage, hoping they could destroy the enemy ships in the confusion. Charry barely heard him. His eyes were locked on the sight across the river as great leviathans rose from the depths, smashing aside deck railings, toppling masts, and breaking wards.

As they surged higher, dwarfing Garva’s largest galleons, the roars of panic mingled with the boom of supernatural waves. Charry turned to help direct the next volley of cannon fire, filled with renewed hope. The Siege of Treon was nearing its end, and the tide was finally turning in their favor.

Chapter 178 - Battle through the Heavens - Jean 12

High above Treon, close enough to the top of the wards that she could feel their power on her skin, Jean hovered in midair, her robes bellowing in the wind. Despite the thundering of her heart, she maintained an air of composed stillness, waiting for her moment.

Far below her, the battle between water elementals and Garva’s mighty warships raged in the vast embrace of the Great Slitherer—a sight few mortals would ever see.

The massive forms of the greater elementals churned the river into a frothing fury. Entire columns of living water rose, crashing down upon decks and hulls, shattering planks with effortless force.

Jean could see attempts at resistance in the runic shields that sparked to life, the crackling discharge of protective wards, and the frantic scrambling of sailors as monstrous waves battered their vessels, but none were successful.

When the river itself seemed to turn against them, there was little humans could do.

Up to this moment, Treon had endured a suffocating blockade, and while she had no doubt they’d hold, it had become clear there would be a price to pay for their defiance, as the countryside was left open for plunder.

Now, in a single day’s turn, the situation had changed drastically. “Poetic justice,” Jean murmured to herself. She allowed herself a small, victorious smile at the memory of Charry’s triumphant return.

Everyone, even the most humble soldier, can change the tide. That is the true power of the Revolution.

The men below her observed from the ramparts, cheering as waves rose high enough to smash entire galleons.

Several smaller ships, already weakened by sabotage or hammered by cannon fire, listed sideways, their wards flickering in vain, and were swallowed beneath the surging tide. The speed of destruction was incredible, as in mere minutes, the water swirled thick with broken masts, shattered hull fragments, and the occasional frantic rowboat.

Yet, it was not a one-sided engagement for long. The more cunning captains of Garva’s fleet rallied, bringing their own artillery to bear after linking their wards to gain a stronger defensive position. The roar of cannons shook the air, and brilliant plumes of mana erupted, smashing through the bodies of lesser water elementals as they reared back for another strike.

Jean forced herself to remain still even as she watched the enemy rally. The spirits collapsed into formless puddles that sank back beneath the waves, leaving behind only faint ripples of mana. Enough of the elementals survived—particularly the massive leviathans—to hold the advantage, but every lost spirit weakened their collective might.

A hush of expectation rippled through the battlefield as the largest Garvan warship—an imposing galleon twice as long as the next, bristling with guns—finally drifted closer. Hidden behind its mighty wards, a powerful presence began to unfurl, spreading over the entire river and pushing back even some of the mightier elementals. Jean narrowed her eyes, scanning the deck for the person who commanded such a formidable aura.

She was spared a long search as a figure stepped off the ship’s prow as though the air were solid ground. It seems like the Duke has finally decided to show up.

Even from this distance, his bearing was unmistakable: tall and broad-shouldered, with a cropped beard of iron gray and hair to match, each strand glinting with the same metallic sheen as his aura.

Even if he won’t be able to save the fleet, he might make the victory a costly one. He’s certainly used to grueling battles, being the commander of the Death Fort.

As though to confirm her thoughts, Duke Garva raised a hand, and a shimmering sword of silver power formed at his side. He held the hilt in a broad palm, flexing his fingers as if testing the blade’s balance.

A moment later, an eruption of energy radiated from him, so powerful that Jean’s hair was blown back from a mile away. Lesser elementals froze and wavered, then fled in swirling eddies of water, driven away by a wave of intangible fear.

Only the stronger spirits—those lofty behemoths that towered like living tidal waves—remained, stirred into action rather than scared off by his display of dominance. They roared, surging upward to meet the challenge.

Jean observed with narrowed eyes, carefully adjusting her preparations to what her sensory spells were feeding her. This whole operation was about giving her the necessary information, after all. If it had just been about smashing a few more ships, she’d have done it on her own.

Garva soared across the river's surface, stepping onto invisible platforms of energy. The largest water elemental reared up, swirling like a living typhoon. Its wide arms extended, crashing forward in a surging wave, large enough to crush entire fleets in its path. Garva leaped into the wave, plunging his sword into it. Where the sword met the water, silver flashes tore through the elemental’s form, shredding it apart.

He is very fast. If it wasn’t for the suit of sensory spells I have running, I wouldn’t be able to track what he’s doing at all.

For a moment, it seemed the elemental might reform around him, an ocean swallowing a single man. But Garva’s swordsmanship proved beyond ordinary mortal skill. A storm of silver flickered inside the wave, and pieces of liquid mass sheared away, dissolving into formless droplets that fell back to the river.

Jean had to remind herself to stay still, as he had yet to reveal what he was truly capable of. Duke Garva was, after all, a Champion Knight, rumored to be second only to the Grandmaster and the Hero in martial prowess.

He openly displayed that skill now, weaving in and out of the water elementals’ attacks, spinning his sword in intricate patterns that cleaved through the watery limbs flailing at him. He left behind shimmering streaks in the air that crackled with incredible power.

Another monstrous wave loomed, a second behemoth elemental roaring with the force of a waterfall. Garva simply extended his free hand, unleashing a shockwave of raw power that ripped the creature’s torso apart, forcing the water to reform chaotically. He seized that moment to dart upward, severing the elemental’s head-like crest and scattering its essence into the air like a fine spray of mist.

His silver mana is dense enough to stop the elementals from reforming. Any damage he inflicts is on their true body, not just their physical form.

The Great Slitherer’s surface churned with the violence of their struggle. Shattered timbers, upturned barges, and corpses floated or sank. The lesser elementals had been either destroyed or frightened off, and the handful of mightier ones left found themselves hard-pressed by Garva’s savage skill. Slowly, inevitably, the momentum shifted. Even though half of Garva’s warships lay in ruin or sinking fast, the man himself threatened to claim a victory, pyrrhic though it might be.

Jean’s gaze flicked to the battered remains of the blockade. He’s lost most of his navy already, but if he emerges victorious here, brandishing the defeat of the River itself, his legend will grow unstoppable. That’s not something I can allow. There cannot be a rallying figure for the enemies of the Revolution.

She could sense the watchers on Treon’s ramparts, most of them cheering for the water spirits and some awed by Garva’s display of unstoppable might despite themselves. The entire confrontation was a spectacle that would be told and retold, and its outcome would shape the morale and reputation of whichever side prevailed.

For a moment, Jean entertained the idea that the Great Slitherer might intervene directly. An Ascended would certainly be more than enough to complete the enemy’s defeat. But as the minutes ticked by, she sensed no greater presence stirring from below.

A new canal is enough to break the old treaty but not enough to get the damn snake to show its face. We should have demanded its intervention directly rather than implying it. Damn the subtleties.

Water exploded as Garva finished another elemental, driving his blade straight into its core. The creature gave a bubbling hiss before collapsing back into the churning waves.

It wasn’t dead. Those things couldn’t really die in the way humans understood them, but they wouldn’t be capable of fighting for a long time.

Jean took a deep breath, letting her mana ripple outward. The wards surrounding Treon flared in response, as if questioning her intentions. With a mental command, she distanced herself from their protective boundary. The moment she did, the edge of her senses prickled sharply as Garva’s aura locked onto her.

Like a hawk dropping onto prey, he shot toward her, silver blades swirling around him. He swung his arm, unleashing a wave of power that ripped aside the water elementals still trying to impede him, scattering them like startled fish. He accelerated, each step propelling him forward through the air at an alarming speed.

In response, Jean spread her arms. She did not rely on a single massive incantation, knowing that raw power wasn’t the way to win this battle, but a multitude of smaller ones, each carefully attuned to what she’d learned.

One by one, magic circles materialized around her—initially a few dozen, then a few hundred, until it seemed as though the entire sky behind her was studded with glowing symbols. Runes of ancient origin and brand-new script floated in neat arrays, the fruit of her combined knowledge and relentless creativity.

She felt Garva’s shock turn to fierce determination. Yes, come face me, Champion, she thought, the corners of her mouth twisting into a determined grin. Let everyone know that even the Kingdom’s mightiest are nothing to us.

If he recognized her from the information circulated about the revolution’s Archmage, then he knew this was no half-baked display.

He halted midair about a hundred yards off, as though assessing the threat. The water below raged with the remains of the spirits he had driven away, but no fresh wave rose to strike at him. All eyes—sailors, revolutionaries, and survivors of the chaos—now locked onto the two of them.

Jean let a million circles fully bloom into existence. They formed a dome of luminous geometry, swirling arcs of radiant lines bridging each circle. The sky glowed with the combined brilliance of her prepared spells, making it look like ten thousand new stars had been born.

“So you are the Archmage of the Revolution,” Garva called over the gale, his voice reverberating with contempt and grudging respect. “I see a girl, but I know a great arcanist when I see one.”

Jean’s heartbeat thrummed in her ears as her mind expanded, using the latent power within the ambient mana to feed her spells. No banter, she told herself. I have what I need, I must not let him adapt to me.

She answered him with action. Her spell array converged, weaving filaments of light into spears, discs, and swirling runic glyphs designed to entrap, dispel, and annihilate. This was everything she could do against one who was her equal.

Where the Void mage had been incredibly dangerous if left unchecked but powerless when understood, as his power came from an external force, Duke Garva relied on nothing but his own might. He couldn’t be tricked or depowered, and there was no secret to his defeat. Only overwhelming skill would do it.

The wave of her arm triggered an outpouring of magical missiles. Ribbons of shimmering force, crackling mana shaped into arrows of raw lightning, conjured gale winds compressed into explosive orbs—each soared at Garva in a dazzling barrage.

He roared, swinging his blade, and silver power burst forth to meet her attack. Kaleidoscopic light bloomed as the spells collided. The air crackled with furious energy, shockwaves rippling outward, sending eddies across the battered river surface below.

Jean narrowed her eyes, refusing to blink. She kept most of her spells in reserve, swirling around her in protective arcs. For a moment, the swirling blasts illuminated the sky like an angry sun, with each side testing the other’s defenses.

Sucking in a fortifying breath, she raised her arms again, magic thrumming through every nerve. Come to me. Let me show you what real power is like.

And then, with a wild gleam in his eyes, Duke Garva lunged forward, meeting her challenge head-on, and Jean’s array of magic circles bloomed as she unleashed their power.

Chapter 179 - Let Them Know - Jean 13

The moment Jean poured raw mana into her spell array, the entire world seemed to freeze for a breath.

Then, the sky ignited.

Hundreds of beams, orbs, and runic constructs shot forward in a psychedelic cascade, each bursting with elemental power. Flames roared in vibrant streaks, arcs of lightning crackled through the air, and flickers of gravity magic tugged at the atmosphere, sending swirling vortexes of wind spinning off in all directions.

Across the battlefield, spectators on both sides recoiled, shielding their eyes from the blinding spectacle. For the citizens of Treon, gazing upward from the relative safety of the ramparts, the whole scene must have appeared like a mad display of magic—an overwhelming, continuous explosion of shimmering lights, each dancing high above the raging river.

Despite being protected by the wards, most still took care to fall back into a building. Instinctive knowledge drove them, as while their minds struggled to understand how such a display of power could be possible, their lizard brains knew very well that survival had to take priority.

To Jean, however, every spell was as precise as a scalpel and as familiar as her own pulse. She perceived them all through the expanded clarity of her multi-threaded mind, one that parsed countless arcs of mana simultaneously, weaving and adapting them on the fly.

Subspells and layered enhancements combined with meta-magic principles infused new power into each volley, allowing her to direct even the smallest cutting curse. Elemental forces soared across the night sky, painting the darkness with broad, violent strokes.

Amid the chaos, Duke Garva became a silver blur. Even when hammered by the barrage, he moved with a martial grace that few men alive could claim. His aura shimmered around him, forming a protective dome, which he enhanced with agile swordsmanship.

Every slash of his blade dispersed incoming spells in vivid sprays of sparks. An onlooker might even call it beautiful—if the clash of titanic might weren’t so deadly.

Even to Jean’s eyes, it was impressive how Garva not only managed to evade many of her attacks but also faced some head-on without crumpling. She recognized the signs of powerful body reinforcement as his life force swirled about his limbs and torso in patterns even more advanced than most high-rank Paladins could craft. His eyes glinted in the unearthly light, and the lines of his face were etched with sheer, unyielding focus.

If he closes in… the thought flickered through her mind. I won’t stand a chance in direct melee. She had enough raw power to fight him, but his physical advantage with a blade in hand could be lethal. A single slip might spell her end.

Fortunately, she had no intention to let him get that close.

Doubling down, she channeled more streams of mana into the swirling sea of circles above. Thousands of new spells emerged from the mosaic of runes. Some were small curses intended to target Garva’s joints, hinder his breathing, or weigh down his limbs. Others were large area-of-effect blasts, distorting gravity so that pockets of space pressed in on him with crushing force. The rainbow of magical onslaught thickened into a solid wall of destruction.

A lesser foe might have perished in the first second under such a punishing salvo. But Duke Garva was no lesser foe. He cut through incoming spells with great swings of his sword, parting her magic like an invisible wedge. When curses flared against his aura, they fizzled away before fully taking hold. If one managed to seep through, he shrugged it off, forging ahead.

Yet it was not without cost. As Jean’s barrage intensified, Garva’s steps slowed. His lifeforce aura crackled with strain, battered by kinetic blasts. Sometimes, a wave of freezing wind forced him to spend precious moments warming his limbs with mana. He summoned more protective shields from some amulet he wore, but they were ephemeral at best, wholly outclassed by Jean’s layered attacks.

Refusing to give him a moment to breathe, Jean summoned even more. She had prepared for days—no, weeks—for the possibility of confronting a Champion-tier fighter, carefully storing arcs of mana in specialized glyphs around Treon. Most of that had been useless against the Void Mage, but now, she could unleash her full might.

With a single mental prompt, she tapped into that reservoir of potential. The wards over the city also lent her a fraction of their power, guided by the clever runes she had sketched in hidden corners of the architecture. That synergy provided her with an almost inexhaustible channel of magic.

The sky roared anew. This time, entire spheres of pulsating energy materialized directly around the Duke. Some ignited into coruscating storms of electricity; others turned the air itself into poison. He retreated with mounting urgency.

Down below, the Great Slitherer foamed, still roiling in the aftermath of the water elementals’ assault. Jean’s peripheral senses picked up battered ships listing or sinking, as surviving sailors either dove overboard or tried to cling to scraps of floating timber.

With the blockade effectively demolished, the revolutionaries on Treon’s ramparts began to cheer. However, some watched in fearful awe, not wanting to celebrate too soon, given that the Duke of Garva remained in the fight.

Garva’s answer finally came in a concentrated flash of silver. Gathering every ounce of his aura, he unleashed a beam that blasted a straight corridor through Jean’s swirl of spells, smashing into the prismatic shield she’d set up around her.

Such an attack, however, wasn’t meant to kill her. A path opened, momentarily free of the chaotic barrage, and he crouched, preparing to charge through.

So he still had some trick up his sleeve. A technique meant to carve through offensive mana… Did he just invent it on the spot?

Jean had anticipated he might try to bring the fight to her. A single flick of her wrist triggered the next wave of spells, finally activating her hidden reserve. A million spells she had prepared, and so far, less than thirty thousand had been used. Now, the rest are activated all at once.

No other mage alive could juggle such quantity without collapsing from mental strain. Jean was sure of that. Yet she had spent years honing her technique for dividing her attention, weaving multiple thought streams so that each aspect of the barrage functioned like an independent mind.

Then came the metamagic. Cloaked her incantations were spells to alter other spells, rewriting their structure mid-flight. If Garva cut through one wave, she adapted, bending the mana around his blade and forcing him to meet fresh patterns. A curse that had fizzled a moment prior might reappear in a different form, coalescing behind him or striking him from below in the shape of a gravity well. From the outside, it appeared as pure chaos, but to Jean, it was a carefully orchestrated symphony.

Even so, Garva tried to carve a path. His silver aura flared again, and Jean saw jagged cracks in the air where his blade struck. The corridor he had forged did not instantly collapse, his warrior’s willpower fueling the technique. He took a leap forward, then another.

But the unstoppable wave of new spells battered him from all sides. Jean’s barrage was no longer a mere hailstorm—it was a hurricane of mana.

From the vantage of those in Treon, the entire sky lit up in a series of overlapping explosions. Deafening thunder rolled across the city. The battered survivors among Garva’s once-proud fleet stared in horror as their liege, the unstoppable champion, was forced backward. The color around him shifted from silver to red, then to golden, and back to silver again, each hue representing a new wave of magic or aura collision.

Jean’s mind, working at hyper-speed, registered Garva using a final desperate gambit—an advanced armor spell. Thick plating materialized over his body, fusing with his aura, and she could feel the pressure it emitted even from a distance. “He’s trying everything,” she murmured with begrudging respect.

Still, it wasn’t enough. He had retreated nearly a mile from his original position, pushed relentlessly back by the storm. At times, the bright silver glow around him flickered, revealing dents and tears in the ephemeral plating. Large welts of energy crackled across the Duke’s broad figure. Jean could see it: the unstoppable champion was starting to break.

That was her cue.

She inhaled deeply, letting her will surge forth. The lines of Treon’s wards shimmered in her peripheral vision, responding to her command. She seized them, along with the raw swirling magic in the air, forging them into a single, unifying Work of True Magic.

In one moment, she twisted that power upon itself. Runes and circles collapsed together, merging into a shapeless mass of glowing mana above the battlefield. The shift was so abrupt that even Garva paused in confusion, his blade raised warily. The hundreds of thousands of separate spells she had conjured wove themselves into a single monstrous presence. The air, already saturated with magic, howled in protest as the new shape asserted itself.

Jean’s heart pounded, and she knew she was hitting the limits of her ability, even after months of effort to prepare this singular spell. Such a technique was close to the domain of the gods—a mastery of synergy and adaptation that dwarfed any typical “ultimate” collective magic. It was beyond Champion territory. It could only be called “Ascended.”

The swirling could of power began to condense, coalescing into something massive. At first, it shimmered like an amorphous cloud, then limbs emerged, wings, eyes, fractal halos. A colossal silhouette loomed over the battered river: an angelic form, though not the serene figure seen in children’s tales. It was an angel true to the oldest tales, with rings of eyes orbiting a central body of blinding radiance. Multiple feathered wings, each of them composed of pure starlight, extended across the sky.

Below, the waters of the Great Slitherer frothed violently. The air itself seemed to weep under the entity’s presence. Treon’s populace, both friend and foe, could only gape as that luminous being manifested overhead. An unearthly choir of magic thrummed through the atmosphere, a subsonic hum that rattled bones and set hearts pounding.

Jean gazed at her creation with satisfaction. She had never resorted to this level of magic in any previous conflict, partly due to the toll it demanded from her and partly because she believed that certain lines should not be crossed unless absolutely necessary. But with Duke Garva threatening everything she and her comrades had built, the moment had arrived.

An odd silence followed. Even the waves seemed to calm for a single moment.

Then Jean issued a simple mental command, and the angel moved. Wings of light beat once, sending shockwaves of pressured air outward. Eyes, dozens of them, turned simultaneously to focus on the Duke. The swirling rings around its head shimmered with raw destructive potential.

Garva raised his silver sword in defiance, every muscle tense. His aura flared, and the battered plating around him hummed in resonance. He looked like a cornered lion preparing for a final stand. Perhaps he believed that if he put everything he had on the line, he could break free.

It was pure foolishness. No mortal could face It.

The angel attacked. It didn’t cast a spell or use a skill. Instead, an impossibly bright lance of power materialized just because it intended to destroy the enemy.

It was over in an instant.

The beam skewered Garva’s silver aura, cracking it like a thin pane of ice. The second strike came from above as the angel took offense to his defiance, and a bolt of pure Light struck him, vaporizing his armor. Garva shouted, trying to muster a final riposte—but the third blow hit too fast, and a wave of pure light enveloped him.

And with that, Duke Garva was gone. Obliterated in a burst of Light that lingered like afterimages in the retinas of those who dared to watch.

Jean felt the moment of his demise reverberate in the mana around her as a final chord struck on a grand cosmic instrument. The air shuddered, then fell into a profound silence. The angelic construct hovered for a brief instant, rings still spinning, then dissolved gracefully into the void. Countless motes of leftover mana drifted away, leaving the sky quiet and star-strewn.

Few ships remained afloat, and those that did were entirely out of position, scattered by the water elementals’ earlier wrath.

Jean released a long breath, letting the massive store of borrowed mana slip from her control. A bone-deep fatigue set in. Even her extraordinary mind and body felt the drain of such an act, but she held steady, floating in the air a moment longer to ensure no threat remained.

The waters of the Great Slitherer sloshed gently beneath her. A hush lingered over Treon’s walls, broken only by the ragged cheering that started in pockets, then grew into a swelling roar.

The Siege of Treon ended. Their greatest foe on this battlefield—one of the kingdom’s mightiest champions—had been obliterated. The blockade was gone, the city saved.

Jean allowed herself a weary, feral grin. She’d paid dearly in energy, but the Revolution would remember this day forever. Lowering her arms, she glided back toward Treon.

“Let them know,” she whispered under her breath, though no one could hear. “No matter how powerful they think they are, the new world we build will be stronger still.”

Chapter 180 - Rein it In - Leonard 59

Leonard’s gaze swept across the circular chamber, lingering briefly on the intricate runes etched into its walls. In better times, he would have regarded the décor as elegantly arcane—an excellent setting for strategy and planning. The Magic Tower gave a wonderful view of Hassel, and he enjoyed taking his meals on the balcony.

Yet what occupied his thoughts now was the necessity of holding this meeting here at all, rather than in the citadel, as it should have been. The last battle had rendered the entire fortress hazardous, with its foundations compromised and its ambient mana disrupted by the opposing forces that had been deployed within its halls.

He’d made sure to cleanse the taint of the Void completely, of course, even going so far as to delve deep within the dungeons, lest an infestation grow unchecked, but it would take a while before he could claim it as his seat.

The Mage Corps was hard at work, but they could only spare so many men when they had to rebuild the entirety of the wards and attempt to re-establish the connection to the leyline. I couldn’t let it be, but it was a big blow to the city’s defenses. We’ll have to empower the wards on our own for a while.

He exhaled softly, aware that everyone was waiting for him to begin. At the long oval table before him sat Amelia, Gareth, Oliver, Neer, and the newest addition to the War Council, Guildmaster Rusty. Candles flickered overhead in the softly lit room, sending wavering shadows across sheaves of maps and documents—though that might have been Amelia’s doing. The thick, musty odor of parchment mingled with the faint tang of ozone that perpetually clung to magical strongholds.

“Let’s start,” Leonard said finally, and the restless chatter faded. “We have a lot to discuss. Amelia, please begin with your report.”

Amelia inclined her head, dark hair sliding over her shoulder. She was much better now, with a few good nights of sleep. “We have confirmed that the Southern Revolutionary Army in Treon has broken Garva’s siege. What’s more, the enemy has been cleansed from all major ports along the lower Slitherer. Several warships remain afloat, mostly battered frigates scattered downstream, but they pose little threat as our Navy is harassing them, and their crews are far too diminished to attempt a raid on our shores.”

“Is Garva himself truly gone?” Guildmaster Rusty interjected, disbelief plain on his weathered face. He was a burly man sporting a thick auburn beard, his guild patch visible on the breast of his tunic. “I read in the report that Jean Franklin killed him in single combat. But that’s… that’s unimaginable. He was a Champion. I’ve seen just how powerful he was with my own eyes.”

Gareth snorted in contempt. Leonard knew he had his own history with the Duke, but he seemed content to leave it at that. Oliver shrugged as though the news was no surprise.

Rusty’s astonished eyes flicked between them, seeking other skeptics and finding little purchase.

Amelia’s lips curved in a slight smile. “Yes, I did say it exactly as you heard. Archmage Jean confronted Duke Garva above the skies of Treon, and she killed him in single combat.”

Murmurs of awe ran through the group despite the matter-of-fact tone. Leonard couldn’t help the upward quirk of his own lips. He had received the news from Jean personally, thanks to her newly tested message spells, which allowed real-time communication across vast distances, if only for people at Master tier and above, due to the significant strain they put on the mind.

He had even felt the echo of her final Ascended-tier incantation. Such spells produced effects far beyond normal magic, and they were more akin to Miracles, and he suspected they had been noticed by more than just himself.

I might have to prepare for some of the other powerhouses to get interested. I know the Grandmaster must have felt it, and while she’s very far, I don’t doubt the Emerald Queen has, too. I only hope Sharken doesn’t wake up; otherwise, I’ll have to personally deal with him. There is no one else who can handle an Elder Dragon, and while the Death Pass isn’t our land, his rampage would kill countless innocents.

“Duke Garva was among the greatest threats we faced,” Amelia continued. “His defeat means that the south of Hetnia, at least, lies free of the kingdom’s oppression—for now. The blockade is gone, and Treon stands fully under Revolutionary control.”

Rusty looked ready to ask another question, but Leonard gestured for Amelia to continue. He needed a full picture before the conversation veered off into speculation.

“Our scouts have confirmed that the vast majority of Garva’s loyal captains are either captured or missing. The local lords who bent the knee to him have escaped beyond the Great Slitherer, presumably seeking support from other loyalist forces. But with the river now as our ally, the Southern Revolutionary Army has a route to strike deeper if we so choose.”

Leonard saw her gaze drift to the large map spread across the table. It showed two red marks on the western bank of the river, where he knew crossings would be possible now. To think that it was a simple Captain who managed to convince the spirits to join us. Had I known it would be that simple, I wouldn’t have let Amelia orchestrate the mess in the Scales… But then again, just because Charry is weaker than us, it doesn’t mean he didn’t achieve a great feat.

He placed his palms on the table’s edge. “I want to hear our options for exploiting this victory,” he said, nodding toward the map. “We could establish a beachhead on the opposite side of the river, maybe in one of the smaller towns, then push further north and take over the farmland. We might even avoid heavy casualties, considering that the latest reports show that the rural localities are the most sympathetic to our message.”

Amelia inclined her head. “Precisely. We have a chance to expand our territory. But we must act swiftly if we want to catch the loyalists off-guard. They’ll regroup if we give them time, even if they have to pull soldiers away from the borders.”

Rusty cleared his throat, glancing nervously at Leonard. “I won’t pretend to be a master strategist, but the guilds in that region are restless. Many crafters resent Garva’s levies, so we might find allies among them. On the other hand, I have no idea if there are enough men in the South for such a maneuver because I don't think we should weaken our position here. If we overreach, we risk getting caught lacking by the Royal Army.”

“That’s the other point,” Leonard said, his voice firm. “The Royal Army is advancing from Nevielle. Amelia, do you have anything new on their movements?”

She nodded, flipping through a pile of notes. “They’ve taken the last major town before the farmland that borders Hetnia. Reports indicate they’ve brought in additional cavalry and raised new levies. I’d estimate they’ll number around fifty thousand soldiers within the week.”

A low whistle escaped Neer, who didn’t seem all that bothered by the prospect of fighting so many. Gareth’s eyes darkened at the figure, and Rusty’s earlier excitement dampened as he took that in.

“We can’t afford to be caught between that Royal Army and any other front,” Leonard stated. “So, we’ll proceed carefully. First, we must send scouts across the Slitherer to gauge the feasibility of a crossing. We’ll organize a strategic push from the south if everything looks favorable. We might need to send some elite forces to assist them, but I want the bulk of the army here to keep a close eye on the Royal Army’s buildup. I’ll not sacrifice our people for a rash gamble.”

The others nodded in agreement.

“All right,” Leonard said, straightening up. “Gareth, your team will manage the scouts. Neer, collaborate with Rusty to ensure the supply lines are ready for a potential campaign. Amelia, monitor the Royal Army closely—if they split their forces or increase their pace, I want to be informed. Any questions?”

Silence stretched for a moment, then each person gave their acknowledgment. “Dismissed,” Leonard concluded.

They rose from the table, gathering up sheaves of papers and small rolled maps. Oliver paused by the door, glancing curiously at Leonard and Amelia, who remained behind. Leonard shook his head once, and the young man closed the door with a quiet click, leaving the two of them alone.

Amelia set down her notes and turned toward Leonard, her eyes cool and assessing. “I suspect there’s something else you wanted to ask me about.”

Leonard exhaled, folding his arms across his chest. “Yes. It’s about him. How is he doing?”

A flicker of annoyance crossed Amelia’s features. “He’s still in the building he commandeered when we arrived. As far as I can tell, he hasn’t left for days. He’s not taking visitors, either, allowing the other generals to handle the army.”

Leonard’s jaw tightened. “Then remain vigilant. I know… I know we have a complicated history with him. But I need you to stay objective. If he requests a meeting or decides to wander around, I want an immediate update.”

She pursed her lips but nodded. “I’ll do it. But you know my position. I’d much rather keep him at a distance.”

“I understand. But I also know he can be valuable if properly handled—” Leonard paused, noticing Amelia’s frown deepen. “—or a catastrophic threat if we ignore him. Until we know his intentions, we must proceed with caution.”

Amelia looked away for a moment, then met his gaze again. “You’ll be the first to know if he so much as steps out for fresh air.”

“Good,” Leonard said quietly. He lifted his notes under one arm. “That’s all. Thank you.”

They exchanged a few more words about minor details, then Amelia departed through a side corridor, her footsteps echoing down the tower stairs. Leonard lingered, letting the tension seep out of his frame.

Finally, he departed as well, descending the spiral staircase. His guards followed closely behind, and together, they exited the Magic Tower. Outside, the sky was bright, and the air held a sense of renewal, so different from what it had been during the battle. He made his way to the stables, where a groom had prepared a horse. Smoothly mounting, Leonard nodded to his escort.

They rode through Hassel at an easy canter, weaving past reconstruction sites. There were scaffolds everywhere—rooftops were being replaced, crumbled walls were being repaired, and half-finished new structures were rising amid older ones. Laborers called out greetings, and children waved excitedly. Leonard raised a gauntleted hand in acknowledgment, sometimes exchanging a quick word with familiar faces. The populace was still wary, but it looked like his outreach efforts were bearing fruit.

It was surreal to see this city working relentlessly toward recovery. Just weeks before, there had been bodies in the street and smoldering ruins everywhere. Yet life persisted.

Leonard felt a surge of pride. As long as there is hope, people will do amazing things to survive, he thought, remembering Belinda’s soft-spoken conviction that people always rose from adversity if given the chance.

As he approached the former Air Force fields, now repurposed into the main training ground, he slowed the horse to a walk. A sturdy wooden fence bordered a broad expanse of flattened dirt. Rows of recruits practiced with spears, swords, or the newest generation of rifles. Officers barked orders, and the occasional crackle of spells soared high above in the sky, where the budding Griffin Order was training.

Dismounting, Leonard passed the reins to one of his guards and strode toward the cluster of field tents. The recruits halted their drills and bowed in respect, some fumbling with their weapons in haste. He offered them a small smile and a nod.

He spent the next half hour observing their drills and speaking briefly with the instructors. Noting improvements in footwork or a promising archer’s rapid progress, he felt a flicker of pride. Not only was the Revolutionary Army a force to be reckoned with, but it had developed a method to build new recruits into good soldiers that far surpassed what the Royal Army had. Even with fewer people to draw from, they could match their numbers.

Despite the sense of calm, his mind briefly strayed back to what he’d asked Amelia to do. He’d very much like to avoid having to face his old friend, but he wouldn’t allow his emotions to rule him.

Finally, as the sun dipped westward, Leonard moved toward the fence line, watching the recruits form ranks for their final session of the day. His guards kept a respectful distance. He inhaled the fresh air, letting it cleanse some of his lingering worries.

“I hope Bernard does the right thing,” he murmured under his breath. Because if he won’t come to me peacefully, I’ll have little choice but to make him submit.

Chapter 181 - Moving Shadows - Amelia 15

Amelia glided through the night like a ghost, leaving barely a faint ripple of shadow against the dingy city walls and murky alleyways. Some in the War Council might think of Hassel as a city in recovery, made of patched rooftops, bustling markets, and hopeful people.

But Amelia knew the remnants of the old regime still conspired. Few dared to openly oppose the Revolution now, yet plots festered in the hidden corners of Hassel.

She moved quietly through the lower quarter, a labyrinth of narrow lanes once known for cheap taverns and low-wage labor. New structures rose here, thanks to the wave of reconstruction, but many stood as abandoned husks, having been deemed of secondary importance.

The unpaved streets reeked of stale sewage and rotting scraps, indicating that the work being done in the sewers had yet to reach this area. Even at this late hour, small groups of ragged men and women huddled in precariously stable buildings, warily watching their surroundings.

Her shadows had whispered of a clandestine gathering in a derelict house on Winding Rat Street—an unremarkable name for an unremarkable place. More than once, she had considered ignoring it. The city had already been thoroughly combed for major threats, and the War Council believed that any true danger had likely gone underground, possibly even fled. Yet she persisted. As Leonard’s intelligence officer, Amelia allowed no stone to go unturned.

She paused at the building in question, little more than a dilapidated shack wedged between two crumbling warehouses. A single crooked door hung from a rusty hinge, and the tiny windows were boarded up. From the outside, it looked like a collapsed storeroom unsuitable for habitation.

Yet she could see smooth stone through a hairline gap in the boards. Amelia’s eyes narrowed. It would have been impossible for a regular soldier to notice in the gloom, but she wasn’t so limited.

She slipped inside through a side window, bypassing the rotting door. As she expected, the floorboards creaked precariously, even without any weight on them, but no signs of life stirred in the dusty main room. Her shadowy form drifted through a narrow corridor. The stench of mold and decay grew stronger. The only clues that someone had occupied this place were scattered footprints in the dust and a faint hiss of stale air from beyond a hidden hatch.

A quick push against the nearest wall revealed a loose panel. She knelt down, peering inside. Sure enough, a narrow staircase descended into darkness, leading far deeper than any ordinary basement should go.

She pressed her palm against the edge of the door. The faint swirl of magic told her it was sealed from below. Nothing she couldn’t handle. A murmured incantation made shadows coalesce around the latch, dissolving the crude wards. Amelia slipped through the now unprotected gap, not needing to open the latch and potentially reveal herself.

The cramped staircase twisted uncomfortably as it led down. At times, it was barely wide enough for a man to pass. A sour smell of damp earth mingled with the tang of burnt-out candles. She moved carefully, stepping lightly to avoid disturbing even the air. Eventually, after what felt like a hundred feet, she glimpsed a dull glow ahead.

Sliding to the edge of the corridor, Amelia peered into a vast underground chamber. Flickering lanterns illuminated rows of battered crates, a couple of old tables, and a stretch of stone floor that seemed incongruous with the dirt walls. There, four men stood around a makeshift desk scattered with papers and half-burned candles.

“-the best we can do given the circumstances,” one man was saying, his voice a thin rasp. “Four carts is all I can manage. The guard we bribed is risking his neck just to arrange this gap in the patrol schedule. If we push for more...”

Another man, older, with a reedy frame and an air of indignation, pounded the table. “I can’t cram my entire fortune into one cart, Arell! I could let go of the chaff, but we’re talking about prime stock! Slaves I’ve spent years curating. I can’t leave them behind in this wretched city.”

A third man, balding and rotund, shot him a baleful glare. “Those days are gone, Welf. The Revolution isn’t letting you stroll out with a train of your precious cargo. If you want to keep anything, you’ll need to stack them like fish and hope they don’t suffocate.”

Welf bristled but fell silent as the fourth man spoke, his tone clipped and condescending. “We are already behind schedule. The First Lance will be displeased if we aren’t at the rendezvous by the appointed time. The best we can do is to bring fresh intel to the Royal Army. Dragging your entire menagerie is not within our current capabilities.”

The mention of the First Lance drew immediate hisses from the others, and the man who’d said it looked abashed, muttering, “Right, not so loud.”

Amelia’s eyes narrowed. I knew he couldn’t keep away.

She’d heard enough. Emerging from the shadow, she let a tendril of darkness snake forth, flickering along the edges of the lanterns. The men froze, confusion etched on their faces as they sensed the ominous shift but couldn’t locate its origin.

With a subtle gesture, Amelia sent a gust of dark wind whipping through the chamber. It extinguished all but one candle, plunging the men into near darkness. Immediately, they panicked.

“What the—?”

Before they could organize, Amelia struck. She slammed her palms together, conjuring shackles of solidified darkness. The black manacles latched onto the men’s arms and legs, yanking them to the ground.

Three of them barely had a chance to cry out. The one called Welf attempted to lunge for a dagger hidden under his cloak, but a surge of constricting shadow pinned his wrist. He let out a strangled yelp.

“Easy,” Amelia said, her tone smooth as polished steel. She stepped forward, allowing just enough candlelight to reveal her silhouette. Her presence radiated a cold menace. “No one’s dying if you come quietly.”

To their credit, they recognized how hopelessly outmatched they were. Welf attempted to spit an insult, but Amelia tightened the dark bonds around his throat just enough to silence him without fully choking him. He gave a choked gargle.

She calmly began searching them, gathering a half-dozen concealed weapons from hidden pockets and boots. The older man with the reedy voice had a stash of sealed letters tucked inside his coat, each bearing the watermark of a noble house. She pocketed those for further reading.

One by one, she dragged them to the far corner. They attempted to resist or bribe her with whispered pleas, but she ignored them all. She didn’t know them personally but recognized the types as part of the old upper class, greedy for slaves and fortunes, even as the world changed around them. Relics. Parasitic relics.

Soon, she had them hogtied with conjured shackles. They stared with terror or hatred. Possibly both. Satisfied, Amelia summoned a swirl of shadow that wrapped their mouths, muffling any attempts to yell before stepping away.

Just as she saw the glimmer of hope enter their eyes, that she’d be foolish enough to leave them alone while she checked the rest of the basement, she allowed one of her spirits to reveal itself.

The panther-like elemental prowled around them, emitting a low rumble of warning and letting them know that any attempt to escape would end in blood.

A brief sweep revealed no additional conspirators, though the labyrinthine tunnels suggested prior use—likely an old smuggling route. She discovered a stash of coins, both gold and silver minted under the old King’s crest, along with a handful of documents detailing patrol routes. The Revolution can use these, she thought, pocketing them all. We may not be able to stifle it completely, but knowing how corruption moves around is good.

With a murmured command, she conjured a dark wind that lifted the men off the floor. They floated, bound in her swirling shadows, as she began the ascent back upstairs. She would need a small dive into the Shadows to transport them to the Tower without being noticed, but the discomfort it would cause them was a trifling detail. The important part was that these pigs wouldn’t pass crucial intel to the Royal Army.

Hours later, Amelia moved through the abandoned farmland beyond Hassel, as light and fleeting as a breath of night air. She had left her captives in Neer’s custody, ensuring they were bound, gagged, and caged—her only regret was not being able to interrogate them personally right away. However, they needed immediate answers regarding the army’s movements, which she could not entrust solely to her spirits. Leonard’s orders took priority.

The fields were once lush with corn and wheat, but they had been abandoned when the lines of war shifted. The crops stood half-rotted, left to wither in the sun. Vermin scurried beneath decaying husks, and a stale wind rattled the empty stalks. Amelia understood that, in more peaceful times, losing such a significant harvest would devastate local communities. Now, it was considered a minor sacrifice if it meant the two armies would have some distance.

Occasionally, she paused to examine footprints or minor disturbances in the flattened pathways. Abandoned campsites conveyed the story of refugees who had passed through. However, there were no recent signs of occupancy. The whole stretch of farmland between Hetnia and Nevielle was a scar, a neutral zone that no one dared to occupy.

Eventually, she neared the true border, where the farmland ended and the rolling hills of Nevielle began. Here, the atmosphere shifted. Torchlights glowed in large clusters, revealing the presence of a well-organized, well-equipped army. Through her heightened senses, Amelia felt the hum of wards and detection spells layered throughout the fields.

So they have a robust perimeter, she thought wryly, pulling her shadow cloak tighter. Better than Count Luster-Treon, at the very least. I would have been disappointed otherwise.

Staying low, she let the darkness envelop her. Occasionally, the wards brushed against her illusions, but she was accustomed to circumventing such magical tripwires. More than once, she had to pause and compress her aura, allowing patrolling knights to pass just yards away. Their armor gleamed under the moonlight, with runes etched into the metal signifying advanced enchantments— far more sophisticated than the half-trained squads that once opposed them in Hetnia.

Amelia recognized the style as a Royal Army standard issue, but it seemed to be a newer generation. Their discipline was evident in the precision of their steps and the taut lines of their posture. Gunmen scanned the horizon with vigilance, and she could sense specialized mages stationed in higher vantage points sweeping the area for mana fluctuations.

Even so, Amelia was no novice in the arts of stealth. She glided between guard stations, timing her movements to avoid their lines of sight. On two occasions, a sensor mage’s searching wave of detection nearly brushed her location, forcing her to sink deeper into the shadows. She stifled her aura to the bare minimum, her heart racing with the thrill of near discovery.

Finally, she left the farmland behind, entering the outskirts of Bunchester, the first major town in Nevielle. The Royal Army had claimed the entire settlement, transforming it into an elaborate camp. Streets normally filled with merchants were now lined with tents bearing the King’s insignia. Soldiers moved about with confidence, showing that their hold was not contested. The city lamps flickered, revealing glimpses of heavy supply wagons and siege engines parked in the squares.

Amelia slipped through the narrower byways, where fewer torches illuminated the corners. Still, she had to be exceedingly careful. Curfews meant no civilians roamed, so a lone shadow would stand out if spotted. She navigated back routes, cloaking herself in illusions of drifting mist.

At last, she beheld her target: a stately manse perched on the northern side of town atop a small rise. Surrounded by an ornate iron fence, the manse glimmered with braziers and warding lanterns. A pair of gilded banners hung from the second-floor balcony, displaying the Lancers' crest. The cobbled courtyard teemed with armed guards, their discipline reminiscent of elite knights rather than regular foot soldiers. Something important—someone important—was here.

She crouched behind an overgrown hedgerow, letting the night’s darkness envelop her. From here, she could see a cluster of robed figures entering through the main gate— lesser mages, perhaps. Her breath slowed, her pulse calm.

It didn’t take long for her to find her target. Handsome and charming as always, Bernard De Luminier lay alone on a luxurious recliner in a well-lit courtyard, sipping red wine. An empty chair rested before him, and if Amelia knew her old comrade from the Hero Party at all, it was meant for her.

Chapter 182 - Old Friends - Amelia 16

Amelia paused to survey the courtyard in detail from the shadows. Low boxwood shrubs framed the polished flagstones. Several potted fruit trees stood like silent sentinels, their branches rustling in the night breeze. Braziers dotted the perimeter, glowing with faint enchantments, but none that would immediately ensnare a spy—at least not if the spy was as skilled as Amelia certainly was.

I don’t expect anything of the sort. He’s far too confident to do it, and we haven't yet declared personal enmity. Even so, I will not neglect my duties. Being captured here would be a significant blow and, more than that, an embarrassment.

Her gaze drifted across the corners of the enclosure, searching for signs of hidden arrays, glyphs, or runic triggers that could link to a perimeter alarm. She sensed no unusual mana beyond the standard wards over the manse. Unless a Champion Wardmaster had prepared the field, she wouldn’t miss anything like that. The two she knew of were in different countries, kept far from bloody conflict.

Bernard, as she expected, was not anticipating an ambush. Alternatively, he may have grown confident enough to believe he was strong enough to handle any intruder. Yes, that’s more like him.

Still, Amelia extended her awareness outward for a second sweep. She noticed half a dozen soldiers posted at the edges of the estate, strong enough to indicate that the occupant of the house was someone of high rank. Another figure—a robed mage, likely assigned to sensory duty—lingered nearby, pacing a corridor that opened onto the courtyard’s far side. Not an insurmountable threat for her, but enough to deter the unprepared.

Some may interpret their presence as a sign of an ambush, but these men are too weak, and he knows it. No, they are likely here as a concession to the other Generals. They wouldn't want the First Lance unprotected, even if they all know he doesn’t need protection.

Once she was certain there were no hidden spells ready to activate, Amelia released a quiet breath, allowing the shadows that cloaked her to fade away. A swirl of dark smoke emanated from her silhouette, starting at the top and revealing her luminous, purple eyes in what she knew was an intimidating display.

Bernard, reclining in his chair, tilted his head with a faint smile when he caught sight of her. He did not flinch or start—proof enough that he had anticipated her presence, as she expected. Exuding his usual languid grace, he lifted his crystal goblet in a salute.

“Amelia,” he said softly, warmly. “I hoped you would join me.”

As if on cue, the robed mage at the far side bowed out of the courtyard, while two watchful knights stepped discreetly behind a column, leaving Bernard seemingly alone with Amelia. It appeared that he had meticulously orchestrated an invitation that relied on mutual restraint for the purpose of negotiation.

She moved forward without speaking, absorbing the changes in her former friend. She hadn’t seen Bernard in person since just after the climax of the Incursion, when they had still been allies.

So much had changed since then—his rank, his loyalty, his place in the kingdom. Yet some things, she realized, remained the same: he was as handsome as ever, with a soft sheen of dark hair, a strong jaw, and an undeniable aura of power that rippled around him.

He inclined his goblet towards the free armchair. “Please, have a seat. I took the liberty of having something prepared in case I had guests.”

It was typical of him, this poised courtesy. She wondered how much effort he’d put into staging the entire meeting specifically to appear nonchalant, unconcerned about her ability to slip through his lines. “I’m not here for pleasantries,” she remarked, though she still settled into the chair, crossing her legs neatly. For a moment, neither spoke, allowing the silence to build.

Bernard took a leisurely sip of his wine and then set the glass aside on a small marble-topped table. “How long has it been, Amelia? I believe we parted ways at the end of the Victory Feast, though we never had the chance for proper farewells.” His voice was smooth, laced with that cultured accent he had never lost.

She suppressed a grimace at how effortlessly he fell into polite conversation as if they were still friends. “Years,” she responded tersely. “Long enough for you to rise in rank, it seems.”

His lips curved into a faint smile that didn't reach his eyes. “The kingdom required strong leadership after the war was won. The King recognized my talents, and… here we are.”

Amelia tilted her head, feigning mild interest. “Indeed. Congratulations on your new position as First Lance. Does the power suit you?”

He chuckled softly. “I prefer to think I serve the kingdom. Power is just the means to an end.”

“And what end is that?” She met his gaze, her luminous purple eyes unblinking. “Preserving the status quo? Preserving a system that enslaves its own citizens?”

Bernard stiffened, a mere fractional tightening of his shoulders. “We can debate politics if you want. But I believe you didn’t come here to question the moral fiber of my office.”

A sharp retort rose to her lips, but she held back. Leonard had entrusted her with a mission: to deliver the Revolution’s demands and assess Bernard’s reaction. She decided to steer the conversation forward. “If you’re so eager to skip the banter, let me get straight to the point. I’ve come to present the kingdom with an offer.”

His interest flickered, a single raised eyebrow betraying curiosity. “An offer? You know that your revolution is deemed traitorous. If it were discovered that I was even entertaining this discussion, I would risk much.”

She let a small, humorless smile surface. “I sincerely doubt you are here without the express permission of the King or at least the Prime Minister. And even if that weren’t the case, you are canny enough to get away with it.” Slipping her hand into her cloak, she removed a thin scroll. “We demand recognition of Hetnia’s independence. The kingdom must cede all claims to it forever. We also demand the abolition of slavery throughout Haylich within one year, enforced by royal decree.”

Bernard stared at her as if she had spoken in a foreign tongue. “You… demand sovereignty and immediate emancipation?” A short, incredulous laugh escaped him. “You can’t be serious. Even Leonard can’t be that naive.”

Amelia’s expression grew cold. “Our victories speak for themselves. The South rallies behind us, and with Hassel now liberated, we have complete control over it. And if you were hoping to apply pressure on us from the West, you should know that Jean Franklin recently annihilated Duke Garva’s blockade. The monarchy is losing ground. One might say it is in no position to refuse.”

He shook his head slowly, a note of disbelief coloring his voice. “Perhaps you’ve reclaimed a few strategic points. But the entire might of the Royal Army stands behind me. You cannot hold onto Hetnia forever, much less impose your demands on the King. We have four more provinces to mobilize that have yet to be called upon.”

She leaned in, allowing her gaze to sharpen. “You underestimate the extent of our support. There is discontent in many circles—nobles, peasants, even foreigners. The King’s tyranny won’t endure if more forces align with us. This is your last opportunity to negotiate a more peaceful resolution, Bernard.”

Bernard’s eyes flickered. “This is madness,” he said quietly. “Don’t tell me Leonard has struck a treaty with Brander or some other external power. I have refrained so far from labeling you as traitors, but this is something I cannot ignore.”

Amelia simply smiled, allowing him to interpret her silence as he pleased. She had learned that sometimes a bit of mystery unsettled an opponent more than a direct claim. Bernard’s fingers drummed against the armrest, revealing a trace of nerves.

Finally, he exhaled sharply, his voice tightening with anger. “I wanted to end this peacefully, for old times’ sake—but if you consort with foreign armies to overthrow the crown and bring war to every corner of our fair land, you leave me no choice.”

She let out a short, scornful laugh. “The monarchy that has persecuted its own champions, enslaved innocents, and allowed the provinces to rot wants to act as if it is the defender of justice? Where was your sense of honor when Belinda was poisoned? Did the ‘kingdom’s stability’ demand her life too? Did your honor make you stand aside when Leonard was falsely accused of her murder?”

A flash of regret flickered across Bernard’s face. He swallowed, composure faltering. “I… I never wished for her to die. You know that.”

“You never did anything to show it,” she retorted, her voice sharp as a whip. “You speak of old camaraderie, yet after the war, you turned your back on those who needed your help the most—like Leonard, Belinda, and everyone who recognized the decay in the system and tried to fix it. Instead, you remained loyal to the King merely to gain the power you so desperately desired.”

His hands gripped the chair arms tightly. For a moment, she thought he might snap them off. When he spoke, his tone was clipped. “I have responsibilities, Amelia. I can’t simply throw them away because a few old friends find the kingdom lacking. No matter how valid your grievances may be, there are protocols—”

“Protocols that keep you in power,” she snapped, cutting him off. “Now you hide behind your rank to justify ignoring everything we once fought for.”

Silence enveloped the courtyard like a shroud. The brazier’s flames fluttered in a sudden gust. Then Bernard rose abruptly, his eyes flashing with anger. “You have made your demands. My answer is no.” His voice turned cold. “The monarchy will not relinquish Hetnia, nor will it abolish slavery just because you request it. That’s absurd.”

She rose as well, mirroring his stance. “So be it. Then you can face our full might. And if the monarchy persists in its cruelty, others will align with us. Your King will find himself isolated and soon without a crown.” And a head, she added to herself.

Bernard let out a bitter laugh. “If Leonard is so confident, he should have come here himself. Or is he too afraid to confront the kingdom’s rightful champion?”

Amelia’s lips curled into a dangerous smile. “I always knew your jealousy would lead to your downfall. You resent Leonard for consistently surpassing you. Perhaps that’s why you cling so fiercely to your new title—afraid of being overshadowed once more?”

He stiffened, his aura flaring in an unmistakable display of raw power. She felt the pressure of his mana as he called upon the might of a Champion. White energy crackled around him, warping the stone with its mere presence. The braziers flickered wildly, and the manicured bushes trembled under the force.

“Leave,” he snarled, voice cracking with fury. “Leave now, Amelia. Next time, we’ll meet as enemies on the battlefield.”

She refused to yield an inch, even though the crushing force of his aura pressed against her senses. With calculated calm, she let a swirl of darkness flutter around her feet. Her own power rose in quiet defiance, less showy than his but formidable in its own right. “I see. Then consider this courtesy expended. We gave you a chance to settle things without further bloodshed. You’ve thrown it away.”

His jaw clenched as the swirl of white mana around him intensified, sending arcs of light dancing across the courtyard. She had no intention of battling him here; that wasn’t part of the plan. He was trying to provoke her, to test the Revolution’s resolve, or glean more of their secrets.

Instead of responding in kind, Amelia let out a final mocking laugh. It echoed hauntingly off the stone walls, and she knew her amusement would be all the more grating. She allowed her body to sink into the shadows, her form dissolving as if consumed by a black tide.

For a fleeting moment before the darkness fully engulfed her, she caught Bernard’s expression: a blend of anger, regret, and something deeper. Perhaps it was a twinge of nostalgia for the days they had fought side by side.

Then, she was gone, her presence slipping beyond the courtyard’s wards, leaving only the soft echo of her eerie laughter behind.

Chapter 183 - Lead - Gareth 12

Gareth pressed a gauntleted hand down on the table. A map of the Hetnia–Nevielle border lay unfurled, pinned at the corners by spare swords and a dented helm. The lines denoting the “neutral zone” showed an expanse of farmland and abandoned hamlets that no one had dared to inhabit since the frontlines shifted.

Leonard’s orders echoed in his head: “Amelia’s intel suggests the Royal Army is on the move. Take a group of outriders and eliminate them.”

It was more brutal than what he had come to know the man for, but he understood the rationale behind it. If the Royal Army had completed its preparations, their next offensive could be only days away. With Hassel’s reconstruction still ongoing and the wards reliant on crystals for power, the city remained fragile. A determined push from a better-equipped enemy could fracture everything they had worked for.

I doubt it will come to that, but it's never wise to put all your hopes in a single person, no matter how great he may be.

Straightening up, Gareth stepped outside to get things started. The sky overhead was a wash of pale gray, tinged with the faint hues of morning. He made his way toward the northern gate of Hassel, where two dozen riders awaited him—steel-clad knights atop warhorses, accompanied by half a dozen orcs and their owlbear mounts. Together, they formed the outriding party that Leonard had entrusted to Gareth.

One of the knights, a man named Rudolph, who Gareth knew from a tourney almost a decade ago, glanced at the orcs uneasily. “General, if I may… are you sure about taking them?”

It wasn’t the first time Gareth had noticed that flicker of doubt. He paused, allowing his gaze to sweep across the orcs. They stood near their broad-chested beasts, adjusting their tack and armor. During the Incursion, orcs had been allies of happenstance, and it was only recently that they had been brought into the fold.

Gareth folded his arms, ensuring he met the man’s gaze. “I fought alongside these orcs against the armies of the dead. I trust them with my life. That should suffice for you.”

Rudolph stiffened, then lowered his eyes respectfully. “Yes, General.”

That settled, Gareth swung up onto his own horse—a sturdy black mare named Nightdrinker. He could feel the tension in the air. The watchers along the battlements, the masons rebuilding the crumbled walls, all turned to observe. Some gave encouraging shouts; others merely stared, worry plain on their faces.

“Move out,” Gareth called. The gatehouse mechanism groaned as the portcullis rose, revealing the Harvest’s Road. In the distance, farmland unfolded like a patchwork quilt, much of it abandoned or wilting. Behind them, the gate shut once more, leaving Hassel’s half-repaired skyline behind.

Morning mist lingered over the fields. Gareth maintained a brisk canter, careful not to tire the horses too early. They hoped to find the enemy soon, but he knew that sometimes these pursuits could take days, and they needed to be at full strength for battle.

He tried not to dwell on how battered the land still was. Instead, he focused on the subtle undercurrent of magic that tingled at the edge of his awareness. Ever since he had channeled the Faith to tear down the wards during Hassel’s liberation, something in him had changed. He sensed magic more keenly and could navigate through illusions, even when they were well disguised. It wasn’t exactly comfortable, being so bombarded with noise, but it gave him an edge: no ambush glyph or hidden runic trap would easily slip past him.

They found no signs of life in the first few miles. The occasional scattering of crows took flight, cawing irritably at the disturbance. At one point, they passed a stray dog sniffing at a collapsed barn, but it fled when the orcs drew near. The hamlets they passed were deserted, with doors ajar and windows boarded or smashed. The farmland lay fallow, with once-tilled soil now overtaken by weeds.

After nearly three hours, Gareth decided they should take a break. He raised a fist, signaling a stop by a dried creek bed. The riders dismounted, allowing their horses to drink from the shallow puddles that remained. The orcs began scanning the area with practiced vigilance—some peering, tapping the ground for vibrations, others sniffing the wind.

Rudolph approached, brow creased. “General, any idea where we might find them?”

Gareth shook his head. “No, they’ll have moved. But Amelia was certain there would be advance groups.”

An orc warrior stepped forward, a scar-laden female with a single metal pauldron. “Chief,” she asked in a low growl, “something is tracking us.”

Before Gareth could answer, he noticed something odd: the shadows beneath his horse’s hooves seemed to ripple, as if water had replaced them. Then, two yellow eyes blinked, luminous in the gloom. The horses stamped nervously, and several men muttered curses.

From the heart of his own shadow, a wisp-thin figure rose, featureless except for those bright eyes. “General Gareth,” it whispered. “The Mistress sends word.”

Gareth found it almost comical to be addressed as “General” by a blob of shadow, but necessity overcame any amusement. “Speak,” he commanded.

The shade bowed. “Royal Army scouts and a knight Corps have been sighted roughly ten miles northwest of your current position. Likely a forward unit, numbering a hundred.”

Tension spread among the riders. So it was true. Gareth nodded to the shade. “Lead us.”

With a silent dip of its head, the messenger glided away, drifting across the farmland like a sentient shadow. The riders quickly mounted and urged their horses on, following in a loose formation.

They traveled swiftly, with the messenger guiding them along winding dirt paths. Eventually, they arrived at a small cluster of buildings. A signpost indicated that this had once been a minor village. Now, the area was engulfed in a disquieting silence. Several structures had collapsed roofs or walls charred by old fires.

They’d go this far to deny us any resource.

It wasn’t empty, though. Faint glints of metal could be seen if one knew where to look, though most of the attention was taken by the knights waiting for them. “There is more hiding hiding,” Gareth warned

The Royal Army scouts had indeed arrived, occupying what remained of the village. About a hundred men, from the quick glance he managed, and they were no green recruits. Their formation was orderly and disciplined, with no ragged lines or sloppy gear. Swords, spears, and shields gleamed, while a few archers stood behind makeshift cover.

One of the orcs inhaled sharply, baring its tusks in a hungry grin. Another knight eyed them warily, likely recalling how much worse their previous enemies had been equipped.

Gareth surveyed the scene, weighing his options. A direct confrontation with a hundred skilled soldiers could be bloody, but allowing them to roam unopposed might jeopardize Hassel. He reined in, scanning for any vantage point or opportunity for diplomacy. The Royal Army soldiers stiffened, clearly noticing the outriders.

No one tried to parlay. Gareth lifted an arm. “Ready yourselves.”

The riders split apart. Knights guided their mounts into a wedge, while the orcs clustered tightly at the center. On the enemy side, lines of spearmen and swordsmen moved swiftly, forming a disciplined, bristling front. A trickle of unease slid down his spine.

No time to waver. Trust in His plan. He drew in a breath and felt a spark of Faith flicker in his blood. “Charge!”

They surged forward. Hooves thundered across the dusty ground, echoing off the ruins. Gareth heard the whistling hiss of arrows and shouted a warning. Three or four knights raised shields; one arrow released a preemptive explosion, taking down the defensive skill, and found a seam in a man’s armor; he toppled from the saddle with a cry. The orcs roared, pressing on.

As Gareth closed in, electricity crackled around his spear, arcs dancing across its steel shaft. He thrust it outward, sending a bolt of lightning toward the approaching line. Two Royal soldiers convulsed and fell, smoke curling from their charred armor.

The thrill of victory was short-lived: a tall figure in chain mail lunged to meet him, deflecting his next strike with a bright flash of steel. Gareth grunted, forced to reevaluate. This man moved with confidence—clearly a Master-tier warrior.

All around, the roar of combat echoed. The orcs struck the center of the line with savage force, shattering shields and splitting pikes with their monstrous strength.

Yet these soldiers didn’t falter as easily as previous foes. They pivoted skillfully, flanking the orcs in small squads. The knights on Gareth’s flanks found themselves caught in chaotic skirmishes and the thunder of hooves mixed with screams.

Lightning flared from Gareth’s spear again, but his chosen opponent angled his sword, absorbing the brunt of the energy with the glow of a defensive skill. The man’s stance was poised and skilled. A real Captain, Gareth thought, parrying an overhead slash. Not the dregs we’ve faced so far. Sparks flew as steel collided, each blow resonating with an aura-laced intensity. The Captain’s eyes narrowed, his jaw set.

They exchanged a rapid series of blows. Gareth’s spear provided him with reach; the Captain’s sword allowed for fluid counters. At times, Gareth caught glimpses of the man’s aura flaring unexpectedly—either from an enchanted item or perhaps a buff from a distant caster. Regardless, it urged him to fight with stubborn ferocity.

He knows he can’t overpower me, so he must be trying to stall.

Gareth saw flashes of the rest of the battlefield: an orc plowing through two soldiers yet getting stabbed in the leg by a third, a knight toppling from his horse beneath a swarm of spears, and the sight of an arrow embedded in a horse’s flank.

They are attempting to whittle us down. Even if we are stronger individually, there are more of them, and their equipment allows them to absorb the losses better.

He ducked beneath the Captain’s thrust, hooking the man’s sword arm with the shaft of his spear. With a surge of lightning, he attempted to jolt him off balance.

The Captain grimaced but managed to shift free, his sword scraping against Gareth’s mail with a screech. Pain lanced through his ribs, but Gareth gritted his teeth, ignoring it. He hammered forward, channeling the power of the Faith. Electricity crackled, and bright arcs scorched the Captain’s chainmail. Another slash from the man forced Gareth back, though he deflected it enough to avoid a mortal blow.

Somewhere behind his duel, Gareth caught sight of orcs regrouping, fueling a renewed assault with savage roars. The knights circled in from a flank, driving lances through a weakening section of the Royal line. However, the enemy refused to scatter. Even outnumbered in certain pockets, they pivoted or called for reinforcements. Each small group supported the others, bridging gaps with disciplined footwork and shield walls.

The Captain seized Gareth’s momentary distraction, lunging with a swift overhead cut. Gareth barely angled his spear in time, the jarring impact rattling his arms. He snarled under his breath—this couldn’t drag on.

He concentrated, letting the lightning flood his limbs. A purple glow radiated from him, crackling over his warhorse’s flanks. I will end this quickly.

He pivoted, feinting high, then ramming his spear low. The Captain tried to block, but Gareth twisted, releasing a pulse of electricity at point-blank range. The force slammed the man’s sword wide, leaving an opening. Spearpoint flashed, piercing under the Captain’s pauldron. The man gasped, an arc of lightning dancing over chain and flesh. He crumpled from his horse, as even his buffs couldn’t keep him going through a ruptured heart.

Surprisingly, the energy that had buoyed the Royal side dissipated with the death of their Captain, and their formation sagged, though they still fought fiercely in squads. Gareth bellowed to his men, “Run them down!”

Roars of effort tore through the air. The orcs slammed forward again, unstoppable now that the gap in strength had been reestablished. The knights ensured that no one escaped, creating a kill box.

More of the enemy began to retreat or discard their weapons. Some fought to the very end, while others, trapped, attempted to surrender. The final outcome arrived swiftly—only scattered groups of Royal soldiers remained standing, but they too were soon overwhelmed by the united force of the outriders and orcs.

At last, Gareth wrested his spear free from a dying soldier’s torso, his chest heaving. He scanned the battlefield. The stench of charred flesh and spattered blood weighed heavily on him. Several orcs lay motionless, brutal wounds marring their broad bodies. Knights, too, had fallen, some alive but groaning, pinned beneath injured horses or slumped against broken walls.

Damn, he thought, the rush of victory fading. They had won, but at a significant cost. The enemy Captain had been a powerful foe and, more importantly, had been able to empower his entire Corps. That was something he’d have to report back.

A ragged cheer from a pair of orcs rang out, triumph guttural in their throats. Some knights raised voices in relief or exhaustion. But the tension remained. Gareth dismounted, feeling a twinge in his side. He knelt by one of his fallen men, pressing a gauntleted hand to the knight’s shoulder. The knight’s breath rattled. “We… we got them, sir?”

Gareth nodded and offered the man a potion that would make him healthy enough to be moved. “Yes. Drink up. We’ll get you back to Hassel.”

He gestured to the orcs, instructing them to gather the wounded. A few Royal survivors crouched near the center of the hamlet, arms raised in surrender. One orc, brandishing an axe, snarled. Gareth intervened. “In the Revolutionary Army, we take prisoners, not trophies. Understood?”

The orc grunted in submission. Gareth turned away to search for Rudolph. The knight had a gash across his brow but remained on his feet, retrieving a battered comrade from beneath a collapsed wall. Gareth assisted him in lifting the unconscious soldier free.

“This new campaign, sir… it won’t be easy,” Rudolph said grimly.

Gareth exhaled. “No. They’re well-trained and well-equipped. But we’ll still win.” That much, at least, was sure. The price they’d pay for such a victory was yet to be determined.

Chapter 184 - Build from the Ashes - Leonard 60

Leonard sat in the atrium, watching as Hassel’s administrative wing was being newly reconstructed despite a stack of reports he needed to get through. His office beckoned, but he enjoyed walking around, observing the effort his people were putting into making their new capital functional.

The morning sun poured in through the newly installed high windows, illuminating motes of dust floating in the air. Rows of tall columns framed the space, carved from stone salvaged after the citadel’s collapse.

After several master masons had deemed the whole thing too unstable to be worth rebuilding, Leonard had ordered it be pulled down, and a new grand City Hall be raised in its place.

Although still unfinished, with scaffolding still clinging to half of the exterior, the area served as the de facto command center. The Tower was starting to become crowded. Even if a lot still needs to be done here, it just feels right.

Outside, he could hear the distant clang of hammers and saws. The city hummed with industry as countless workers strove to rebuild. Occasionally, low voices and hurried footsteps echoed through the atrium, but no one stopped him as he completed his inspection and walked back to his new office.

It was still quite spartan, with only one full bookcase out of the seven he had built, and three maps showing increasingly wider views of Hassel, Hetnia, and Haylich. He was sure that with some time, he’d make it into a nicer place.

With a sigh, he sat back down and pored over logistical notes: supply lines needed rearranging, rations needed to be distributed, and reinforcement scheduled. More importantly, with the victory in the South, they needed to start building the new canal and complete the preparations for the push into Garva. No matter how much he worked, it seemed to be never-ending.

Amelia had once teased that he, the mighty Hero, had become little more than a clerk. But he recognized the necessity: wars weren’t just about battles. They were about managing resources, morale, and alliances.

His train of thought ended when Gareth appeared by the door, framed by the bright morning light.

A quick inspection revealed that although he looked tired and dirty, he wasn’t injured. Leonard had sent him out on a reconnaissance mission the previous day, and while Leonard trusted his skills, he knew the Royal Army’s vanguard forces could pose a serious threat.

“Gareth.” Leonard stood, striding forward. “Are you well?”

Gareth shook his head. “A few scrapes. They’ll heal.” He paused, then presented a folded parchment stained with dust and dried blood. “We found a scouting force, about a hundred men. Well-trained and better equipped than any we’ve seen in Hetnia.”

“What happened?” Leonard asked gently, setting the report down on his desk. He would read it later, but he preferred a first-hand account.

“We engaged them as per our orders.” Gareth’s voice was matter-of-fact, but Leonard sensed the underlying tension. “Though most were scouts, they fought like elites. We prevailed, but we lost a few knights and some orcs.”

Leonard’s heart sank. He knew this was inevitable, but always hoped it wouldn’t be necessary. “How many did we lose? Did you bring them back for me to resurrect?”

Gareth’s jaw tightened. “Seven knights dead, three more wounded badly enough that the healers are still working on them. Four orcs are gone, too. The rest are mostly injured, some severely. But we destroyed that scout force and took a handful of prisoners.”

Leonard closed his eyes, nodding. The Revolution could afford casualties, mostly thanks to his resurrection ability, but it wasn’t always possible to bring people back from the sea of souls. “You did well, Gareth,” he finally said, keeping his tone calm though it pained him to show no grief. “You’ve confirmed our intelligence and struck a heavy blow. That’s important.”

A flicker of relief crossed Gareth’s features. “Thank you.” He exhaled. “Truth is, these soldiers… they’re on another level compared to what Pollus had. We were lucky it was only a hundred. If they send more or coordinate in a big push, we’ll be in for a hard fight.”

Leonard nodded solemnly. “I understand.” He placed a firm hand on Gareth’s shoulder. “Go see the healers. You’ve earned some rest, and I need you in peak condition if we’re to prepare for what’s next.”

Gareth nodded slightly. “Yes, sir.” Without further ceremony, he trudged away.

Leonard stood there a moment longer. He reminded himself that they had known this was coming—that the real Royal Army would be no pushover. Even so, the reality of so many losses compared to their almost unscathed record so far weighed heavily on him.

He shook his head and purposefully left his office, walking down the corridor and the stairs until he reached the morgue. There, he did his best to recover as many as possible, but as he’d expected, two knights and an orc had already passed on.

He still took a moment to help the survivors adjust to their new life, exchanging a few encouraging words before leaving them to the tender mercies of the healers.

“That went about as expected,” a soft voice came from behind him.

Leonard didn’t react, having recognized Amelia’s presence the moment she slipped into the atrium. She appeared from behind a column, arms folded, as calm and unreadable as ever.

“Yes,” Leonard said, turning. “Just the beginning, indeed.”

Amelia’s brow creased. “And it will only get worse.”

Leonard shook his head. “I doubt Bernard will continue sending out scouting forces to be slaughtered. If I know him…”

“You think he’ll change the game now that you’ve proved our men are still superior. That he’ll adapt.” She finished for him.

Leonard nodded. “The total loss of that forward unit was a probing strike. He’ll see now that we can handle smaller detachments. He won’t risk more useless skirmishes.”

She hummed in agreement. “Either they muster a larger offensive, or they find a more cunning approach. One that hits us harder.”

Leonard exhaled slowly, remembering the days when Bernard was part of the Heroic Party—a brilliant fighter, always analyzing the battlefield. “Yes. Something big is coming. We need to be ready.”

Amelia studied him a moment, then dipped her head. “I’ll inform the War Council to prepare for anything.”

He gave a curt nod, mentally mapping out the best ways to fortify the city, how to use the allies they’d secured, and how to ensure the mages had enough time to weave their wards. Meanwhile, Bernard would also be planning, likely with greater resources at his disposal. The next few days would be crucial.

The day was bright, nearly oppressively sunny. Leonard stood in the watchtower by Hassel’s northern gate, scanning the distant horizon. A rhythmic hammering echoed behind him—repairs to the city’s battlements continued. Dozens of laborers, overseen by several mid-level mages, formed an almost unbroken chain of stone and mortar.

His reflection in the chipped mirror, fastened to a post, reminded him just how tired he was. His immense endurance meant it didn’t show, but he could recognize the heaviness in his own eyes. The War Council had spent the previous night discussing strategy, ultimately concluding that if Bernard intended to force a siege, the revolution would need more time to fortify. Should the Royal Army advance with full strength, the casualties could be immense.

We would need to sacrifice many to slow them down. Or I would have to do something terrible.

The watchtower door creaked open. Amelia stepped in, “We have a lone rider coming in from the enemy lines.”

Leonard’s eyebrows rose. “Interesting.” He turned to follow her down the stairs.

They stepped onto the rampart walkway. From this vantage point, Leonard saw a solitary figure galloping across the farmland, dust kicking up behind the horse’s hooves.

This must be Bernard’s second move. He has probed our defenses and will use that intelligence to surprise us.

Hoisting himself onto a section of parapet, he peered north. The rider slowed as he approached within half a mile of Hassel’s walls, presumably wary of snipers or hidden wards. A handful of Revolutionary soldiers readied rifles along the battlements, scanning for possible threats.

Leonard hopped down. “Let’s go meet him at the gate.”

Amelia followed, expression pensive. “Do you think he wants to negotiate?”

“He can’t realistically storm the city, even if a siege would be costly for us as well,” Leonard reasoned aloud, heading toward the outer gatehouse. “And if he stays idle, we’ll keep building our position. He’s too intelligent to let either scenario unfold.”

By the time they reached the gate, the messenger had stopped about half a mile away. The guard captain on the gatehouse roof raised a spyglass. “He’s waiting, sir!”

Leonard ascended a short flight of steps to the battlements. From there, he saw the rider more clearly: a man in standard Royal Army gear, without any weapons drawn. The man craned his neck, scanning Hassel’s walls. Once he spotted Leonard, he urged his horse forward at a brisk canter.

Some of the revolutionaries bristled, gripping guns or bows. Leonard raised a calming hand. “Hold. Let’s see what he has to say.”

The rider continued until he was about a hundred feet from the city’s outer walls. He produced a scroll from a leather tube slung at his side, unfurling it with a theatrical flourish.

Leonard sensed the tension from the watchers on both sides. He was certain that whatever was said now would be known to the rest of the city by lunchtime.

The man took a deep breath, then shouted, his voice surprisingly resonant: “Hear ye, the words of Bernard De Luminier, First Lance of the Kingdom of Haylich, champion of the King’s justice, addressed to Leonard Weiss, Traitor, and champion of the Revolution!”

Leonard exchanged a glance with Amelia. The messenger’s voice echoed across the fortifications, no doubt carefully chosen for volume.

The scroll’s next lines poured forth: “Your talk of sparing the land from conquest rings hollow when your actions bring violence and rebellion. If your cause is just—if you truly believe you fight for the good of the people—then come forth and prove it. Let us pit champion against champion so that the heavens might judge whose ideals are righteous, and whose are illusions.”

Leonard felt his pulse quicken. A duel wasn’t what he’d expected. The message continued:

“If you shy from battle, you acknowledge your aggression is baseless. If you cling to the notion of waging war upon your own people, so be it. But let this be a final chance to spare countless souls from needless bloodshed. We challenge the Revolution’s champion to meet ours in honorable combat.”

The messenger paused for breath, then concluded, “Signed and sealed, Bernard De Luminier, First Lance of Haylich, sworn Paladin to the King, under the eyes of heaven and man.”

A hush fell. Soldiers lined the parapets, some frowning, others whispering about the meaning of this.

Amelia exhaled softly. “This reeks of a trap. He must know he can’t beat you in a fair fight.”

Leonard shrugged, stepping forward so the messenger could see him clearly. “Sometimes, calling a bluff is in our favor. Besides, if Bernard thinks he can do something cunning, I’d rather confront him head-on than let him keep maneuvering in the shadows.”

He raised his voice to address the messenger. “I hear the challenge. I accept.”

A ripple of surprise went through the Revolution’s ranks. Some looked ready to protest, but Leonard’s calm demeanor silenced them.

The messenger carefully rolled up the scroll and placed it back in the tube. A flicker of satisfaction crossed his face. “Then the First Lance awaits you. In three days, at midday, near the old orchard six miles into the neutral zone.”

Leonard nodded. “So be it.”

The rider bowed from the saddle. “If you fail to appear, it will be taken as an admission of your cause’s cowardice.”

Leonard merely waved a hand dismissively. “We’ll be there.”

That seemed enough for the messenger. He wheeled his horse around and galloped away. The watchers along the wall let out a collective breath. A few cursed under their breath at the possibility of a trick. Others quietly admired the man’s nerve.

Amelia glanced sidelong at Leonard, her expression half-exasperated, half-amused. “You agreed before anyone could try to talk you out of this, and now it’s too late to back off.”

Leonard cast her a wry smile. “If it’s a trap, we’ll just have to break it. If it’s not, a duel might let us deliver a terrible blow to the kingdom’s morale.”

She inclined her head. “And if they have something prepared just for you?”

Leonard’s eyes hardened. “I won’t lose.”

Chapter 185 - Live among Your People - Leonard 61

For the next three days, Leonard made a point of walking the streets of Hassel, deliberately visible to all—soldiers, workers, and citizens alike. From the moment the sun rose over the recovering city until twilight draped shadows across the cobbled streets, he could be found in one district or another, quietly assessing the mood and lending his presence as a reassuring reminder that their cause was just and strong.

It would have possibly been smarter to sequester himself away for meditation or even some training, but despite Bernard’s strength, he was not concerned about a lack of power on his part.

It was more important to let the people know that he was confident in his victory. Stability was a hard thing to build, especially so soon after a bloody siege, but if he wanted his newborn country to ever stand on its own two feet, he needed it.

The reconstruction crews always greeted him warmly, hammers raised in salute, and calling out respectful acknowledgments. They were made up of locals and the army’s engineers, alongside a few master stonemasons from Treon and Lamprey Port.

That had been deliberate, meant to facilitate integration into the new order, and it seemed to be working, as even the local workers seemed very happy to see him. It probably helps that we are paying them twice what they would have gotten for working for Pollus. And that we’ve already handed out an advance.

It was unfortunate, but money always made things easier. Once the people of Hassel began to trust that the Revolutionary Government was responsible with payments, they would start to rely on them for other things as well.

Leonard waved back, always pausing briefly to express his thanks for their hard work and provide encouragement. Soldiers guarding the city walls or patrolling the streets saluted crisply, their backs straightening proudly as he passed. Yet he saw beneath the bravado the tension lining their faces. They knew a pivotal battle loomed.

Almost none of them doubted he would win, but they were all too aware that his victory wouldn’t stop the Royal forces from trying something underhanded.

The ordinary citizens, however, were more cautious. He walked among merchants selling goods in hastily rebuilt stalls, nodded at families sitting on the stoops of humble homes, and smiled openly at farmers bringing fresh produce from the countryside.

Many responded politely, inclining their heads or murmuring greetings, but their eyes held a guarded distance, hinting at uncertainty. Leonard understood: to many, he remained an enigma—a hero of legend rather than a person with whom they felt comfortable approaching.

Considering that he had led an assault directly into the heart of their city less than a month before, it made sense for them to be so wary.

Undeterred, Leonard went for the softer target. Hassel’s children displayed none of the adults’ reticence, and if he could gain their support, simple as it might be, it would show to the adults that he could be trusted.

In a grassy square near the poorer neighborhoods, he knelt to their level and answered their endless questions about his adventures as the Hero. They clustered eagerly around him, eyes bright, tugging at his sleeves.

“Did you really fight an army of the Void on your own?” one girl asked breathlessly.

“I did,” Leonard replied, gently ruffling her hair. “It was a fearsome battle.”

“Did you win?” a small boy demanded, wide-eyed.

“I’m here, aren’t I?” Leonard grinned, drawing laughs from the assembled children.

“Can you show us some fighting moves?” asked an older child, holding a wooden spoon he’d clearly pilfered from his mother's kitchen as one would a sword.

Leonard chuckled, taking the spoon from the boy’s hand. “I suppose a demonstration wouldn’t hurt.” He glanced at his personal guard, gesturing to a sturdy man named Felix. “Felix, draw your sword.”

Felix raised an eyebrow but obediently did as commanded, stepping forward and holding the weapon cautiously. Leonard infused the spoon lightly with the golden glow of the Light, strengthening it until it shimmered faintly.

“Ready yourself, Felix,” Leonard called playfully, raising his glowing spoon.

The children laughed, delighted, as Leonard tapped Felix’s blade, gently knocking it aside at first. Felix grinned and attacked in earnest, his blade flickering skillfully through the air, yet Leonard’s spoon smoothly countered each strike.

Empowered by the Light, it was as sturdy as enchanted steel. With a swift spin, Leonard disarmed Felix neatly, and the sword clattered harmlessly to the cobblestones.

The children erupted into cheers, their voices ringing joyfully through the square. Felix chuckled, retrieving his weapon with a good-natured shake of his head. Leonard smiled warmly, feeling the barrier between him and the citizens crumble slightly.

It was essential to balance moments like these with the more formal presentations. He could draw power from the people’s beliefs, yes, but it could also influence him. He had felt that several times during this campaign, and he didn’t want the image of him as a cold, invincible conqueror to crystallize over Hetnia.

His willpower was strong enough to resist the voices, but that didn’t mean he shouldn’t make it easier for himself.

After the excitement subsided, Leonard patiently demonstrated the basic sword forms to the children, gently correcting their stances.

Behind the eager participants, one child caught his eye—a boy who lingered at the edge of the group, watching intently but shyly.

Leonard observed him quietly, noticing a steady flow of mana radiating unconsciously from the boy’s small frame. The air around him shimmered faintly with uncontrolled energy, indicating an extraordinary reserve of magical power. Leonard doubted regular people would notice, beyond maybe a prickling feeling on their skin if they got too close, but to him it was as obvious as day.

He doesn’t look like he even feels it. If he’s always like this… He might even have more than Jean had when I first met her. The reserves of a Master without any actual training… If he’s not suffering from it, it means he doesn’t just have power, but also that his body is sturdy enough to take the constant stress. He’d be a terror with some training.

It would take years before he felt comfortable bringing the kid anywhere near a battlefield, of course, but that didn’t mean his talent shouldn’t be nurtured. Even if the Haylich campaign ended before he’d matured enough, having more powerhouses ready to defend their freedom could only be a positive.

Leonard subtly beckoned a guard to come closer, murmuring instructions to note the child’s name and family. As the lesson concluded, Leonard approached the shy boy, kneeling to meet his hesitant gaze.

“What’s your name, young man?” Leonard asked gently.

“Elias, sir,” the boy whispered, eyes wide with awe.

Leonard smiled reassuringly. “You have a remarkable gift, Elias. Do you know that?”

The boy’s eyes widened further, confusion evident. “I do?”

Leonard nodded kindly. “Indeed. You have more magic in you than most adults I’ve ever met. Have you ever had problems with people feeling uncomfortable with you when they got too close?”

Elia’s mouth gaped, and he nodded rapidly, “They always told me I was a weirdo! Nobody wants to play catch with me!”

“Well, there is nothing wrong with you, I can tell you that much,” Leonard replied, patting the kid on the head and confirming that indeed, his reserves were very deep.

Nearby, Elias’s mother approached hesitantly, clearly a washerwoman from her rough hands and simple clothing. She twisted her hands nervously, her eyes downcast. Leonard stood slowly, extending his hand gently in greeting.

“My lady,” he spoke softly, prompting her to look up startled.

“Oh, m-my lord,” she stammered, blushing deeply and fumbling her words. “I—I apologize, he didn’t mean to disturb you—”

“Not at all,” Leonard assured her quickly. “Your son has extraordinary potential. With your permission, the Magic Tower would like to offer him formal training.”

Her eyes widened, and she stared at him in disbelief. “My Elias? Magic training? But, my lord, we—I—”

Leonard gently interrupted. “Don’t worry about the cost. The city will fully fund his studies and equipment. Someone will visit soon to give you more details. Your son has a great future ahead, if you allow him the chance.”

Tears welled in her eyes, overwhelmed by the sudden kindness. “Oh, thank you. Thank you, my lord,” she whispered hoarsely, bowing her head again and again.

Leonard gently squeezed her shoulder. “No need for thanks. It’s my privilege to ensure every child gets an opportunity to flourish. That is why I led this Revolution, after all.”

As Leonard turned to leave, he felt an abrupt tug within the flow of the Light—a familiar presence radiating from far beyond Hassel. He froze momentarily, turning sharply to gaze northward, a deep frown settling on his brow. The sensation was unmistakable, but why would he announce himself so openly?

Leonard sighed, shaking off the feeling with a grim smile. He knew exactly who approached, and despite the apprehension tightening his chest, he could not help but feel a bittersweet anticipation.

———

That evening, Leonard sat alone on the balcony overlooking the city, a glass of golden wine in hand. The stars sparkled above, distant and calm, oblivious to the tumult below. His gaze lingered thoughtfully on the horizon, where darkness veiled the encroaching armies.

Amelia joined him quietly, slipping into the seat beside him. She opened her mouth to speak, but Leonard raised a gentle hand to stop her.

“I already know,” he murmured softly, swirling the wine slowly in his glass.

Amelia blinked, surprised. “You do? How?”

Leonard smiled faintly, bittersweet and melancholy. “He announced himself earlier. Felt his presence in the Light. Hard to miss, really.”

Amelia sighed, shaking her head ruefully. “I should have expected the Grandmaster wouldn’t lower himself to an ambush or anything dishonorable. He’s too proud for that.”

Leonard hummed quietly in agreement, his eyes distant and reflective. “Yes. Always honorable, even when it might hurt him. Stubborn old fool. He’ll still fight me, though. If he came here, it means they managed to either convince him it’s his duty, or find leverage he cannot ignore. Anything else he wouldn’t have cared about.”

A long silence settled between them, comfortable and laden with shared understanding.

“It’ll be good to see him again,” Leonard finally admitted softly, his voice thick with unspoken emotions. “It’s been too long.”

Amelia glanced at him sideways, noticing the sadness etched in his features. “Even if it comes to blows?”

Leonard nodded slowly, the smile fading from his lips. “Especially then. He would expect nothing less. It will be… painful, but necessary.”

She reached out, gently squeezing his hand reassuringly. “You’re not alone, Leonard. We’re all here with you.”

He met her eyes gratefully, nodding once. “I know. And that makes all the difference.”

They sat quietly together, watching as night deepened, stars twinkling serenely in the darkness. Leonard’s thoughts wandered, contemplating the inevitable confrontation, the weight of the past pressing heavily on his heart.

Yet despite everything—the turmoil, the sorrow, and the battles yet to come—he felt an unwavering certainty. No matter the cost, no matter the pain, he would face his old mentor honorably, standing firm in his convictions. The future of Hassel, of the Revolution, depended on it.

And if fate demanded they clash blades, then Leonard would do so without hesitation, carrying with him the strength of all those who believed in their cause.

The night deepened quietly around them, filled only by the distant murmurs of a city awaiting destiny.

Chapter 186 - An Old Man - Alaric 1

In the serene quiet before dawn, Grandmaster Alaric stood silently in the sparse chamber of the commandeered manse in Bunchester. It was a much better accommodation than he had often experienced, so close to the frontline; however, this wasn’t the usual conflict.

It has been brewing for a long time. The Incursion put a temporary stop to it, as people had an enemy that looked the part to focus on, but the ugliness of humanity has now returned to the fore. It was only a matter of time before the abandoned province would rebel.

It was a pity that the best paladin he had ever trained was the one to lead it, but Leonard had always been stubborn in his own way. And maybe, just maybe, it was a good thing.

He hadn’t dared allow himself to think of it this way while in Mellassoria. His mind was well shielded, but his actions could be interpreted in a hundred different ways by the scheming carrion feeders of the Court. And I have a responsibility. It is a heavy one these days, but that doesn’t mean I will shirk it.

The morning’s first light stretched warmly through tall windows, illuminating his quarters: an austere bed, an iron-bound chest, and a heavy wooden table upon which rested his polished plate armor and neatly folded tabard bearing the pure white sigil of the Whiteguard. It was much more than he’d gotten in his early days.

“Perks of being an old monster,” He grunted.

Stretching slowly, Alaric felt his bones creaking gently in protest. He was an old man now, well past his prime, but he still possessed the strength of a hundred knights. The One Closest to Heaven, they used to call him. Not so much anymore, now that the Hero had so clearly crossed the boundary to immortality.

His broad shoulders had only slightly diminished, and although his pale skin sagged, marked by age, his stature and strength remained intimidating. A sparse halo of white hair crowned his otherwise bald head, complemented by a full, meticulously kept beard that cascaded down his chest. Even in simple linen robes, his presence was commanding, imbued with a quiet dignity earned through more than a century of warfare and faith.

The door opened softly, revealing a young squire carrying a tray laden with fresh bread, cheese, and a steaming pot of tea. Behind him, two paladins bowed respectfully.

“Good morning, Grandmaster,” the squire said softly, reverently placing the tray on the table. “Breakfast is served.”

“Thank you, lad,” Alaric rumbled gently. Once, he would have ignored the boy, but he’d gotten soft, and coming so close to his favorite apprentice was making him feel emotional. “Tell the brothers I will join them shortly for prayers.”

The squire bowed deeply and withdrew silently. Alone again, Alaric closed his eyes, murmuring a brief prayer of thanks. Then, he ate his breakfast, savoring each simple bite. Such small rituals provided him with clarity, a reminder that life was a gift even amidst duty and turmoil.

The Light shines on. Whatever it might show us, we must take it as it is. Stark, painful, and beautiful all at once. That is the life the Heavens gave us.

When the meal concluded, he donned his armor with great care, feeling the comforting weight of enchanted steel upon his shoulders and chest. Each movement was precise, honed through thousands of repetitions.

Most Paladins had their squire dress them, but he had always preferred to do it on his own. It was just another way to forge a closer connection to his own arms, and he would need it today if he didn’t want to die in the first exchange of blows.

Fully armored, the Grandmaster knelt in the center of the chamber, his hands resting atop the hilt of his sword, its point pressing firmly against the stone floor. He whispered heartfelt prayers, pleas for strength, wisdom, and courage for the trials ahead.

Upon rising, a paladin knocked softly on his door. “Grandmaster, the First Lance requests an audience.”

Alaric nodded slowly. Little Bernard had undoubtedly been waiting impatiently, but such matters held little concern for him. He was beyond the games of the Court now, and his decision to come had given him much leeway. “Let him in.”

Moments later, Bernard De Luminier strode into the room, barely containing his displeasure. Alaric’s gaze remained tranquil, silently measuring the younger man as he gestured calmly toward a nearby seat. Bernard reluctantly accepted, his eyes smoldering with irritation.

“Grandmaster,” He began stiffly, irritation clear in his clipped tone. “I must question the wisdom of announcing yourself so openly. Leonard undoubtedly knows you’re here. We intended surprise and advantage, not to forewarn him.”

Always so heated when it comes to Leonard. So impatient to defeat his old friend. To kill him and ravage his dream. What a foolish little boy.

Alaric’s eyebrows lifted fractionally, though he didn’t let the extent of his contempt show. “I serve the Kingdom and the King, but I will not lower myself to deceit or subterfuge, First Lance. My presence here is not a dagger in the dark but a beacon of righteousness. Leonard deserves no less than to know whom he faces.”

Bernard’s jaw tightened visibly. “Your honor could cost us victory.”

Alaric pinned Bernard with a powerful, unflinching stare, heavy with power far beyond what he could hope to wield. “If victory comes at the price of our honor, then it is no victory at all. I came to fulfill my duty and, if necessary, to die for my King. But never forget—my duty does not entail dishonor.”

Bernard swallowed his frustration, clearly wrestling with his urge to argue. Finally, he stood abruptly, chair scraping loudly on the stone floor. “Very well, Grandmaster. Remember that you fight for your King. Leonard must fall.”

“I am fully aware,” Alaric replied softly, his tone final.

Bernard bowed sharply, turned, and stalked from the room. Alone again, Alaric sighed deeply. Right or wrong were almost never so clear, and yet his oaths bound him.

If anything, I should still be able to show the boy a thing or two. He will need them if his ambition is as great as I believe.

The sun rose higher, bathing the abandoned farmland in golden light as two forces converged at its center. Knights clad in royal armor lined one side, while Leonard’s revolutionary knights formed ranks opposite them. Roughly a hundred mounted warriors on each side created a disciplined perimeter, solemnly watching the unfolding moment.

Today would be a momentous occasion, regardless of the outcome. Either the Revolution would crumble, as the greatest of their leaders fell in battle and proved to be a false prophet, or the Kingdom would retreat.

Alaric didn’t doubt that Bernard had a fallback plan in case he lost. In fact, he was sure the boy was ready to implement it the moment things started going sideways. But no matter how he scrabbled and plotted, a loss here would be a heavy blow indeed.

At the heart of the Kingdom’s lines, Alaric’s horse was led forward by a squire. He dismounted slowly, carefully adjusting the weight of his armor. It had been a year since he had last worn his full regalia, but he wouldn’t dream of not coming in his best.

A younger paladin—one who Alaric was quite sure had once been a training companion of Leonard’s, before the boy surpassed him— approached cautiously, eyes filled with concern.

“Are you certain, Grandmaster? We could still—”

Alaric silenced him with a stern glare, voice firm and resonant. “Doubt has no place here. Not now, not ever.”

His fate had been sealed the moment he’d allowed the blasted Prime Minister to sink his fangs into the King. Vasily hadn’t been this way for half a century, despite the bloodshed that had seen him rise to the throne.

It’s too late for regrets now. He scolded himself, as if he hadn’t been doing it ever since the news of Belinda's death reached his ears.

He accepted his sword from the squire, gripping its familiar hilt firmly. Across the field, Leonard had dismounted from his own steed, his stance relaxed yet confident. Their eyes met, and Alaric felt transported decades into the past for a brief moment.

He saw himself training Leonard, then a young, lost boy, showing him how to hold a sword, correcting his stance, guiding his first uncertain strikes. Memories surged back vividly, igniting a painful ache within his chest. Leonard had always had potential, raw and immense. Alaric had once dreamed that potential would serve to bring peace to the Kingdom.

This dream had proved itself prophetic, though Leonard had chosen a different path, one Alaric understood but could not embrace.

The Revolution represented change, something necessary and inevitable, perhaps. But Alaric’s duty remained unwavering: he was bound by oath and honor to defend the realm until death relieved him.

Taking a steadying breath, he firmed his resolve. For the new to rise, the old must fall. He had always known this day would come—when pupil faced master, ideals clashing in steel and blood.

New trees cannot grow if old roots choke them out. Yet, they must be tested by the storm; only those that have the potential to reach the sky will remain standing.

Alaric strode forward, his presence towering and intimidating despite his years. He could sense Bernard’s knights pulling back as his power unfurled, pressing down upon them.

Little boys playing at being knights. If this were the Serpent Wars, they would choke on their own breath. Ah, back then, life was simpler. My enemies were enemies, and my allies…Well, no, they were fools at best and evil at worst back then as well.

His voice, deep and commanding, echoed clearly across the silent field. “I am Alaric, Grandmaster of the Whiteguard and Champion of the Kingdom of Haylich,” he proclaimed solemnly. “I call forth my opponent to stand and face judgment. Come forth, Leonard Weiss, Hero of the Revolution, and meet the wrath of my blade!”

The knights on both sides watched breathlessly. Leonard advanced, calm and steady, his eyes resolute yet tinged with the same sorrow Alaric felt within himself. Each step brought them closer, the air thickening with tension and unspoken emotion.

Alaric lifted his sword slightly, its polished steel gleaming brilliantly under the sun. Today, he knew, honor would be upheld, no matter the cost.

Their gazes locked, unyielding, as master faced pupil across the dusty, broken earth. For a brief moment, respect and regret filled the space between them—a silent understanding passed between old teacher and cherished student.

Then, steel flashed in the sunlight as both warriors took their stances. Around them, the world held its breath, awaiting the outcome that would shape the future of Haylich itself.

Chapter 187

Leonard stood silent, eyes locked on the towering figure of Grandmaster Alaric, standing motionless across the vast, barren field.

He studied his former mentor closely, noting every subtle change. It was only a little over a year since their last encounter, yet the toll taken on the older man was undeniable. Alaric’s back remained straight, his aura powerful, unmarred by the ravages of time—yet Leonard saw the truth clearly reflected in his eyes.

Those familiar, confident eyes now carried the burden of exhaustion, a profound, pervasive weariness that spoke volumes about what the last year had been like for him.

If given the chance, I would choose to relive everything again. Belinda’s death will forever linger in my mind, yet I am certain that my actions are justified and not just an act of revenge. But what must have felt upon hearing about her death, my reputation being tarnished, and my achievements, all while being trapped in Mellassoria, awaiting the call to uphold his vows?

A sharp and unexpected pang of sadness resonated within his chest. The man who had trained him and shaped him into the warrior he was today stood ready to face him as an enemy. Alaric had been a rock during the hardest times of his young life. He had helped him find his balance, grow into a powerful man, and taught him how to wield that power justly.

For a fleeting moment, Leonard considered stepping forward—not with a blade, but with open arms—to embrace his old master, to beg him to cast aside this folly and join him. He could see a bright future ahead for them. Having the Grandmaster of the Whiteguard join him would cement once and for all the justness of his cause. It would open the way for the rest of the kingdom to bend the knee.

But a single glance at Alaric’s resolute expression quickly extinguished that impulse.

No, Leonard realized bitterly. Offering mercy or a chance at reconciliation now would deeply insult Alaric. If he had come here, sword in hand, it was because he fully intended to fight. It was not simply the royal court’s schemes or Bernard’s maneuvering that had brought him here, but Alaric’s own sense of responsibility and honor toward the Kingdom he had spent over a century protecting.

I’m sure they must have been working hard to force him to come, but he would have never let himself be manipulated if he didn’t believe that it was his duty to do so.

Leonard understood that no words or entreaties could sway the older warrior. To reach the heights he now sought and to truly claim mastery over the Light, Leonard knew he had no choice but to defeat the Grandmaster decisively.

It was probably the capture of Hassel that forced his hand. Until then, the revolution could be classified as a regional conflict. But with the duchy’s capital falling and no sign of peace talks in sight, it became obvious to even the blind that I do not intend to stop here.

Leonard turned his gaze slightly toward the assembled warriors, knights of exceptional skill from both sides, arrayed as silent witnesses. Every man present was at least of Expert rank, and among them stood several Masters, their powerful presences casting heavy tension across the battlefield. There was no mistaking that today’s outcome would irrevocably define the future. Today, something significant would end, and something else would rise from the ashes.

His gaze lingered briefly on Bernard, sitting astride his mount, observing impassively. Gone was the companionable smile that once adorned his friend’s face.

There is nothing left of the young man I once fought alongside. He’s sold himself to the king for more power. I wonder if I could have saved him? Would he have ever allowed me to? How long ago was the die cast?

Bernard’s eyes now reflected only cold calculation and steely resolve. Leonard recognized the truth behind this encounter immediately—it was more than just the duel itself. If it had been a mere victory in battle he sought, Bernard could have continued amassing strength; he could have sought contracts with the mercenary bands of the north. There would have been risks, of course, but he might have tipped the scales enough in his favor to turn a battle of attrition in his favor.

No, he didn’t just want to fulfill his duty. He wants to defeat me.

Bernard, as cunning as ever, had anticipated Leonard’s emotional turmoil upon being forced to fight his mentor. He knew that Leonard might win the physical fight, but hoped that the price of victory—the crushing weight of slaying his beloved teacher—would mentally and spiritually weaken him.

Leonard didn’t doubt that Bernard was ready for that moment of vulnerability, prepared to exploit any opportunity. Of course, my men would deny him the chance to strike me even if I were ever so taken with grief. But he probably has more in reserve.

In that instant, Leonard felt something within him shift irrevocably. The lingering vestiges of nostalgia and youthful hope were abruptly discarded. His heart hardened as he fully embraced the mantle placed upon him by fate and circumstance. He would not allow grief or sentimentality to cloud his purpose. The Revolution must prevail, and for that victory, Leonard would accept any cost, no matter how heavy or painful.

Yes, it is far too late to leverage my old bonds. The murder of Belinda severed anything that could cloud my mind. After that, after I saw just how far they were willing to go, nothing could have prevented their eventual loss. It is written in the stars.

Slowly and deliberately, Leonard unsheathed Dyeus, feeling the familiar hum of power awaken in his hand. He took his stance, feet planted firmly, and met Alaric’s gaze unflinchingly. For a heartbeat, silence reigned supreme, thick with tension and unspoken words.

A pulse of power came from his sword, comforting and exultant at once. The relic hadn’t minded being used to fight chaff, to cut down the minor enemies that had placed themselves in their path, but the last battle in Hassel had awakened a hunger in it. It had remembered what it was like to put everything on the line. And it knew Alaric would be able to give it what it wanted.

Then, without the need for any formal declaration, both warriors exploded into motion simultaneously.

The earth beneath them violently shattered as they propelled themselves toward one another, moving at monstrous speeds. Mere rock couldn’t hope to contain the might of the two most powerful paladins in the kingdom.

Space itself seemed to distort, bending under the sheer magnitude of their power as the Light unfurled around them, wreathing them in coronas of power.

As their blades collided, a colossal shockwave erupted, rolling outward with devastating force. The lines of knights recoiled, their formations buckling dangerously until Amelia swiftly raised walls of shadow, absorbing the brunt of the backlash and shielding the witnesses from annihilation.

Peripherally, Leonard was aware of her pulling the men back, urging those who could move to make for the distant hills while carrying those weak enough to be frozen before the display of power.

Yet all these occurrences barely registered with Leonard, as his full attention focused solely on Alaric. He pushed forward, blade pressing against blade, each muscle straining with effort. It felt nostalgic in a way; if he hadn’t hardened his heart, he would have easily fallen back into the old rhythm of training.

Alaric’s strength was enormous, and the Light burned ferociously within him—an incandescent beacon of righteousness. It was enough to make him a threat even to Ascendants, such was the depth of his devotion.

However, Leonard knew his own connection was deeper, richer, and more potent. It had long outstripped what a Hero was granted by the System and had become something greater. I am the manifestation of the Light upon the earth. Nothing shall impede my path.

Dyeus resonated harmoniously in his grip, amplifying his power until Alaric staggered backward, forced to retreat lest he be overwhelmed in the initial clash.

Thus began a duel of unprecedented scale, unlike anything seen in centuries. Blades flashed faster than mortal eyes could follow, and each collision sent shockwaves rippling across the terrain. The Light erupted brilliantly around them, obliterating shadows for miles and pushing back even Amelia, whose control strained and buckled under the radiant onslaught. Observers scrambled to retreat, desperately evading annihilation as the battleground transformed into a crucible of divine power.

Even Bernard relocated away from the battle, though his expression betrayed nothing. Evidently, he’d expected this much when he’d called for the Grandmaster of the Whiteguard to fight against the Hero of the Light.

Leonard found himself grinning fiercely, exhilaration surging through his veins, reflected precisely on Alaric’s face. The older man laughed exuberantly, praising the Light for granting him such an extraordinary opponent. Leonard allowed himself a brief moment of admiration—Alaric was truly magnificent, an embodiment of honor, strength, and unyielding will.

What could you have been, without the shackles you bound yourself with? Had you not stopped advancing, bound as you were with false duty to a kingdom that never once thanked you for your service?

But the time for admiration swiftly passed. Leonard drew deeply upon his connection to the Light, infusing every fiber of his being with its celestial brilliance. He charged forward, transforming into a blazing comet of divine wrath. Alaric met him head-on, but Leonard’s assault proved overwhelming. Dyeus erupted with radiant energy, crashing into Alaric and driving him brutally into the earth, which buckled and evaporated under the searing heat of their clash.

The blow would have vaporized any other Champion. Had he struck Duke Garva, he would have ceased existing, despite his much vaunted “invincible” defense.

Alaric’s blood spurted freely, staining his beard crimson. Yet still, the old warrior rose, eyes alight with wild determination, laughing as he unleashed a potent surge of the Light. The beam raced toward Leonard, seeking to obliterate him, but Leonard faced it unflinching, allowing Dyeus to howl its dominance as the blade cleaved effortlessly through the blazing attack.

No manifestation of the Light could possibly hope to face the Sky blade. It was just as much a law of the universe as gravity and time.

Leonard raised Dyeus skyward, channeling an immense torrent of divine power through its length. A heavenly blade took form in the sky above, casting the battlefield into stark brilliance. Leonard saw Alaric brace himself, arms wide, welcoming the onslaught. He roared with manic joy, preparing to meet the ultimate expression of the Light head-on.

This was why Leonard had so loved learning from the old man. He didn’t fear what he couldn’t understand. Battle was in his blood, no matter how deeply he buried that instinct.

Anyone else would have fled, as the primitive portion of their brains desperately tried to seek refuge from something they couldn’t hope to fight. Alaric only laughed harder.

Leonard felt an overwhelming surge of divine strength flood his limbs. The magnitude was staggering, exhilarating, terrifying, and magnificent. He embraced it fully, reveling in his communion with the Light. With a final, decisive movement, Leonard unleashed his strike, the enormous heavenly blade descending toward Alaric with unstoppable force.

In that instant, Leonard felt no regret, no doubt. His heart was firm with purpose, resolute in its commitment to the Revolution. Whatever would come next, this duel was the crucible through which he must pass. The old must give way to the new, and Leonard had become that new beacon, blazing brightly enough to reshape the world.

His eyes met Alaric’s one final time, acknowledging their profound connection. The older man’s expression softened momentarily, a brief look of pride, perhaps even peace, passing across his features before hardening into a resolute smile.

Even though the Grandmaster knew he couldn’t hope to emerge from this clash, he would still confront Leonard’s attack head-on. Burning Light enveloped Alaric as his very life fueled its density and power. Every ounce of skill he could muster to strengthen his armor was applied, condensing it into a solid mass.

Leonard unleashed his final strike, fully aware of the weight and significance of his actions. With a thunderous roar, the heavenly blade crashed down, marking the end of one era and the birth of another.

Chapter 188 - For the Future - Leonard 63

Leonard stood motionless, his heart hammering fiercely as he stared down at the fallen body of his mentor. Alaric lay sprawled amidst the cracked, scarred earth, his white armor shattered, blood pooling gently beneath him.

Leonard knelt beside him, breathing deeply and trying to calm the surge of grief that gripped his heart. Oh, how did it come to this? You stubborn old fool.

He gazed at Alaric’s face, frozen in death yet eerily peaceful. There was no sign of agony, no anguish etched on his features. Instead, an expression of joy and fulfillment lingered there, an ecstatic satisfaction that caught Leonard off guard.

“Only you could find happiness in being killed by your student.” he murmured, feeling a tear work its way down his cheek.

His hand hovered above Alaric’s chest. The temptation to reach into the ether, to draw his mentor’s soul back from beyond, tugged fiercely at him. He knew he had the strength and the divine connection necessary to resurrect him, despite how at ease he’d been with his death.

Yet, to do so would betray everything he had stood for. Alaric’s final act was filled with purpose and fulfillment; he had faced death bravely, even joyously. Pulling him back now would dishonor the very essence of his noble sacrifice.

I’m sure he would simply tell me to respect his choice. He was an old man, even for a Champion. He might have had another decade, maybe two, if he stayed away from battle, but would he truly want such a life?

He hesitated briefly, reaching out to gently close his mentor’s eyes while whispering softly as he prayed for the old man’s soul.

With a heavy heart, Leonard withdrew his hand, accepting the bitter truth: his mentor had chosen this end willingly, and he had to honor that choice. Yes, he is with the Light now.

The ground soon ceased shaking, and the cloud of dust settled gently around them. Silence briefly enveloped the battlefield, only to be shattered by an eruption of noise as reality rushed back in.

Leonard rose slowly, turning toward his knights, whose cheers and cries resounded through the air, echoing across the desolate earth.

"Long live the Revolution! Hero! Hero!"

Their voices merged into an overwhelming tide of admiration, respect, and fierce loyalty. Across from them, the royal knights stood in stunned silence, their faces pale with disbelief and shock at the swift, decisive end to what they had assumed would be a lengthy and grueling battle.

If Leonard were a regular Hero, someone whose power only came from his Class, he would have lost. Despite being born a mortal man with little talent, Alaric had climbed the ranks with a burning will. Anyone who could still be considered a mortal would have lost to him. Leonard was not, and only now were the Royal Knights starting to realize this.

But Leonard barely heard them. His eyes, hardened by grief and resolve, moved slowly toward Bernard. His old friend sat astride his horse, his face cold and calculating. Gone was the camaraderie and the youthful warmth Leonard had once treasured. Now, there was only icy detachment and a readiness for betrayal that Leonard had anticipated but deeply wished to deny.

The distance between them was vast, but such concerns didn’t matter much beyond the Master rank. Eyesight sharpened more than an eagle’s, and miles could be traversed in moments. Both understood this, just as they recognized that the duel wouldn’t be honored.

Bernard barked something Leonard couldn't quite hear over the rush of blood in his ears. But he saw the effect instantly, felt the sudden surge of murderous intent ripple outward. A hundred knights unleashed their attacks simultaneously, weapons glowing brilliantly as spells and martial skills sliced through the air. Bernard’s lance glowed silver, its piercing strike approaching faster than sound, leaving behind broken earth.

For an instant, Leonard appeared defenseless. Yet, he had known this betrayal would come, and although his heart ached deeply for the friend he’d lost, his resolve was unwavering. With fierce determination, Leonard channeled the Light, summoning an immense wave of radiant power, cloaking himself enough that a hint of his true presence could filter through. The oncoming barrage shattered upon contact, scattering harmlessly into the ether.

A few knights—older and more experienced—held back, waiting for precisely this moment. They attacked swiftly once more, aiming to get him in the instant his guard lowered.

Once more, spells and skills blasted towards him, lesser in number but greater in power, only to be intercepted by the explosive retaliation of the Revolutionary knights. Amelia’s shadows surged forth, forming walls and tendrils of darkness that smashed into their foes, protecting Leonard and driving back the oath-breakers.

All these men had been supposed to stand as witnesses to the duel between the two champions, and their attack meant they could be treated as curs without honor. The Revolution would show no mercy this time.

Leonard felt renewed strength and pride watching as his people fought back. These were his comrades, loyal warriors bound by honor and sacrifice. Their presence steadied him, anchoring him firmly even amidst betrayal and sorrow. Amelia unleashed a blast of darkness that effortlessly crushed half a dozen knights, her presence a comforting shadow behind him. Leonard took a breath, preparing to rejoin the battle and exact justice.

Before he could advance further, the earth beneath him cracked violently, showing that Bernard’s plan had not been as direct as he’d imagined.

From the fissure erupted a squad of assassins, their blades immediately drawing Leonard’s attention as they dripped with the vile corruption of the Void. His eyes widened slightly in surprise; their presence had completely eluded him. They had managed to conceal themselves while he was distracted by his mentor.

The moment he engaged and found his initial attack rebuffed, he recognized Bernard’s true strategy. This group had been specially trained to hunt paladins, their dark blades and vials of Void essence countering the purity of his Light. Every time Leonard unleashed his power, they scattered vials of the foul substance, neutralizing his attacks just enough to evade harm.

Of course, they could no more stand before his power than a flickering candle could withstand a storm, but they were trained well enough to take advantage of the fraction of a second that their trickery granted them.

But Leonard was beyond such games now. Here, separated from his men and unburdened by restraint, he could finally unleash his full might. Power surged through him, incandescent and pure, burning away the very taint of the Void. It screamed in agony, dissolving under his mere presence.

He swung Dyeus once, and the blazing blade obliterated two assassins instantly. The others scattered, not reacting to the death of their comrades and simply continuing to try and find a gap to stab him, but Leonard didn’t give them a second of reprieve.

Bull-rushing forward, he forced one assassin to take his blade through the chest, and he broke apart into atoms, unable to withstand the burning power. Turning to the rest, he smiled when he saw how close they were. “How foolish, to think that numbers will help you.”

Imposing his will upon the world, he positioned himself just to the side, so the three remaining assassins were aligned in a single line. Another swing vaporized them.

With burning eyes, he fixed his gaze upon Bernard.

Sensing Leonard’s intent, his old friend turned slowly, pale in the face and wide-eyed with the realization of his impending doom.

The chaos around them faded into insignificance, the clamor of battle becoming muted and distant. Leonard stepped forward, his stride purposeful, inexorable, filled with divine judgment.

He thought of the young Bernard he once knew—the honorable knight whose loyalty had seemed unshakable, the boy who had laughed and fought by his side in countless battles. That boy was long dead, consumed by ambition and twisted by politics. Leonard mourned him too, his grief now doubled but resolved into purpose.

It was always going to come to this. Alaric was right to say that today marked the end of an era. I, too, must shed these last chains that bound me to civility. The Kingdom was never going to take our conquest lying down. Anyone who sides with them will fall to my sword, old friend or not.

Each step Leonard took radiated judgment and power. Royal knights scattered desperately from his path, their morale shattered as they watched their champion and commander reduced to helpless terror. Bernard’s lance trembled slightly in his grip, its silver glow diminished, pale against the blazing purity of Leonard’s approach.

Leonard’s voice echoed across the battlefield, steady and inexorable. “You once swore an oath, Bernard. Loyalty. Brotherhood. Honor. You have betrayed them all.”

Bernard swallowed hard, lips moving soundlessly before he finally mustered a response, voice shaking. “I did what I had to. For the Kingdom. For the King.” To his credit, his spine firmed as he spoke. A hint of pride shone through, and though he must have known the end was nigh, he decided to face it standing tall.

Leonard shook his head slowly, sorrowfully. “The Kingdom you speak of no longer exists. It is an empty shell, hollowed by corruption. You did this for power, Bernard. For ambition.”

The First Lance attempted one final, desperate attack, lunging forward, the lance flashing silver. It was powerful and fast—fast enough to surprise anyone else in the Champion tier. Leonard had no doubt that his old friend practiced this exact thrust, so simple yet so deadly, thousands of times.

It wasn’t enough.

Leonard parried effortlessly, the immense strength behind his movement shattering Bernard’s lance in an explosion of divine light. Bernard fell back, his eyes filled with despair as his last hope crumbled to dust.

“Please, Leonard,” Bernard whispered hoarsely, fear finally cracking through his façade. “You know I had to.”

Leonard looked deeply into the face of his old friend, clearly seeing the frightened boy who had once fought alongside him. But mercy now would be unjust. Bernard had willingly taken command with a treacherous aim, betraying everything sacred between them.

The greatest gift Leonard could give him now was to stare him in the eyes as he pronounced his sentence.

“You will find mercy in the Light’s judgment. But not in mine.”

Leonard raised Dyeus, feeling its divine resonance, authority, and justice. Bernard bowed his head, trembling. The world paused around them, every breath held as judgment loomed.

The blade descended swiftly, cleanly. Bernard’s body fell quietly, his ambition, treachery, and torment ending with a final, resigned sigh.

Leonard straightened slowly, feeling no joy, only grim resolution. He turned toward the battlefield, where royal knights fled or surrendered, the Revolution’s victory decisive and absolute.

His knights shouted triumphantly, celebrating their hard-won freedom, their voices filled with hope. Leonard stood tall and raised Dyeus high. The sun’s rays reflected brilliantly upon its blade, casting blinding beams across the battlefield.

“Long live the Revolution!” he proclaimed.

His warriors echoed him thunderously, their voices ringing loud and true. Amelia nodded to him before taking the lead and continuing to sweep the battlefield, overwhelming the few stubborn fools who still fought.

Leonard lowered his blade, allowing himself a quiet moment to mourn—to mourn Alaric, to mourn Bernard, to mourn the innocence lost. But within that sorrow was a seed of hope, for the end of one era heralded the dawn of another. He felt the burden of leadership settle firmly upon his shoulders, knowing he would bear it willingly and honorably.

There will come a day when no one needs to sacrifice as I did. He thought sadly, as his mind went back to Belinda. He could almost feel her warmth in the Light, her smile as she saw what he’d become.

“So, look within, when you my absence cry,

I'm not gone. Our love will never die.”

He repeated the last couplet of her favorite poem, feeling it fitting.

“For you, my love. So that the world might one day be just.”

Table of Contents

Information

Prologue - A Propagandist's Job is Never Done - Sigurd 1

Chapter 1 - Requiem for the Lost - Leonard 1

Chapter 2 - Don't Bother the Sleeping Giant - Leonard 2

Chapter 3 - The Court of Velvet Fists - Amelia 1

Chapter 4 - Uneven Scales - Leonard 3
Chapter 5 - A Chessboard Upended - Leonard 4
Chapter 6 - Tea is for Plotting - Leonard 5

Chapter 7 - Skullduggery is a Noble Art - Leonard 6

Chapter 8 - The People Want what they are Led to - Amelia 2

Chapter 9 - The Clock never stops Ticking - Gerard 1

Chapter 10 - Rocks are Hard Places - Leonard 7

Chapter 11 - A Watched Pot still Boils - Leonard 8

Chapter 12 - A Door closes, A Door is Broken Down - Leonard 9

Chapter 13 - Watchful Eyes, Strong Arm - Gerard 2

Chapter 14 - The Shadows Have Feelings Too - Amelia 3

Chapter 15 - A Rat Doesn't Know It's Sinking - Vlad 1

Chapter 16 - Walking Into a Trap Is a Choice - Leonard 10

Chapter 17 - Actions Speak Louder than Words - Gerard 3

Chapter 18 - Obsidian is Brittle, but Oh So Sharp - Damien 1

Chapter 19 - Old Roots Can Still Flower - Lia 1

Chapter 20 - Proper Preparation and Other Good Habits - Oliver 1

Chapter 21 - Patience Of The Hunter - Neer 1

Chapter 22 - Consequences have Actions - Oliver 2

Chapter 23 - Whispers in Corners - Amelia 4

Chapter 24 - Theatrics and What They Beget - Leonard 11

Chapter 25 - The Rat Can Hide, But the Cat Has Its Ways - Leonard 12

Chapter 26 - Tolls and Bells - Oliver 3

Chapter 27 - The First Milestone Is Still A Milestone - Leonard 13

Chapter 28 - A Little PR Never Hurt Anyone - Leonard 14

Chapter 29 - All You Need Is Sabotage - Amelia 5

Chapter 30 - A Stroll To Clear The Mind - Leonard 15

Chapter 31 - Is It Breaking And Entering If You Only Enter? - Leonard 16

Chapter 32 - Daily Vlog of A Young Archmage - Jean Franklin 1

Chapter 33 - Old Friends, New Problems - Jean Franklin 2

Chapter 34 - To Lay In Wait - Leonard 17

Chapter 35 - Dreams And Actions - David Longs 1

Chapter 36 - Sometimes Simple is Best - Leonard 18

Chapter 37 - Get Your Blood Up - Leonard 19

Chapter 38 - A Siege Is Only As Fun As Its Duels - Oliver 4

Chapter 39 - Old Boys' Club - Jeremiah D'Ansan 1

Chapter 40 - You wanted the Cake, Now Eat It - Leonard 20

Chapter 41 - Last Chances And Decisions - Jean Franklin 3

Chapter 42 - Contributions come from the Unlikeliest Places - Eleanor 1

Chapter 43 - Chose a Job You'll Love - Sigurd 2

Chapter 44 - Victory and Bureaucracy - Neer 2
Chapter 45 - Take a Deep Breath - Leonard 21
Chapter 46 - Eastern Blues - Amelia 6

Chapter 47 - Hold On Till Morning Comes - Charry 1

Chapter 48 - Not An Inch More - Charry 2

Chapter 49 - Responsibility and Growth - Oliver 5

Chapter 50 - Stubborn Old Men - Leonard 22

Chapter 51 - Family Matters - Vikar Genus 1

Chapter 52 - Some Things Can Only End One Way - Leonard 23

Chapter 53 - Sacrifices - Amelia 7

Chapter 54 - Making the Best Out Of The Worst - Charry 3

Chapter 55 - Raking the Ashes - Leonard 24
Chapter 56 - War is Messy - Neer 3
Chapter 57 - Battle for the Bridge - Charry 4

Chapter 58 - Good Old Fashioned Morale Wins - Leonard 25

Chapter 59 - Playing Games and Earning Prizes - Amelia 8

Chapter 60 - Handling Problems - Lia 2
Chapter 61 - Too Clever - Luke Smith 1
Chapter 62 - Muddy Business - Charry 5

Chapter 63 - War Breeds Innovation - Leonard 26

Chapter 64 - Battle of the Swamp - Leonard 27

Chapter 65 - To Reach Beyond - Oliver 6

Chapter 66 - Geniuses are Useful for Infodumps - Luke Smith 2

Chapter 67 - Preys and Predators - Luke Smith 3

Chapter 68 - Painted Faces - Luke Smith 4
Chapter 69 - The Executor - Gareth 1
Chapter 70 - Dancing Shadows - Amelia 9
Chapter 71 - Resolution - Leonard 28

Chapter 72 - Leadership and Its Burdens - Leonard 29

Chapter 73 - Hiding Like a Mole - Charry 4

Chapter 74 - Count without the O - Eleanor 2

Chapter 75 - The Power of Good Messages - Leonard 30

Chapter 76 - One Man Army? - Oliver 7

Chapter 77 - One Man Army! - Oliver 8

Chapter 78 - Churning Waters - Colin Masters 1

Chapter 79 - Ambition is a False Idol - Colin Masters 2

Chapter 80 - The Subtlety of an Orc - Neer 4

Chapter 81 - Is It Fair To Negotiate With Losers? - Leonard 31

Chapter 82 - Lunch Is A Battle - Colin Masters 3

Chapter 83 - Grab Hold of It - Leonard 32

Chapter 84 - Noir is Back in Style - Eleanor 3

Chapter 85 - Back in Town - Sigurd 3
Chapter 86 - Seeing is Believing - Sigurd 4
Chapter 87 - Uh Oh - Eleanor 4
Chapter 88 - The Eye - Leonard 33
Chapter 89 - Treon's War Council - Leonard 34
Chapter 90 - Diplomacy - Damien 2

Chapter 91 - Treaties are Battlefields - Damien 3

Chapter 92 - Watch Your Mouth - Damien 4

Chapter 93 - Peer Behind the Curtain - Leonard 35

Chapter 94 - Teenage Spirits - Margaret 1

Chapter 95 - Trekking and Its Consequences - Oliver 9

Chapter 96 - Fae Deals - Oliver 10
Chapter 97 - Orc Roots - Neer 5
Chapter 98 - Feasts For Orcs - Neer 6
Chapter 99 - The Hunt - Leonard 36
Chapter 100 - The Second Trial - Leonard 37
Chapter 101 - Knots Unravel - Neer 7
Chapter 102 - Oh Blessed One - Oliver 10
Chapter 103 - Self-Reflection - Neer 8
Chapter 104 - Totems - Leonard 38
Chapter 105 - When You Have it - Leonard 39
Chapter 106 - Knuckle Sandwich - Neer 9
Chapter 107 - The Stepchild - Leonard 40
Chapter 108 - Ahoy - David Longs 2
Chapter 109 - Face Your Fears - David Longs 3

Chapter 110 - Some things shouldn't be Looked At - Charry 6

Chapter 111 - Behold - Charry 7
Chapter 112 - Chain of Command - Amelia 10
Chapter 113 - Girlhood is Magic - Jean 4

Chapter 114 - Daily Life of a Young Archmage - Jean 5

Chapter 115 - Thriller - Eleanor 5

Chapter 116 - Voluntary Incarceration and Other Hobbies - Sigurd 5

Chapter 117 - Teenage Activities - Jean 6
Chapter 118 - Run Baby Run - Eleanor 6
Chapter 119 - Unequal Battle - Jean 7
Chapter 120 - All You Need Is A Duel - Jean 8

Chapter 121 - There is Always A Sneakier One - Lia 3

Chapter 122 - Keep Yo Head Down - Jeremiah 2

Chapter 123 - Midnight Missions - Oliver 11

Chapter 124 - Make the Best of It - Jeremiah 3

Chapter 125 - Bring a Gun to a Knife Fight - Leonard 41

Chapter 126 - Can't Hide No More - Leonard 42
Chapter 127 - Behold the Horror - Jeremiah 4
Chapter 128 - Open your Fronts - Gareth 2

Chapter 129 - Once More Unto the Breach - Gareth 3

Chapter 130 - The Lightning Strikes - Gareth 4

Chapter 131 - Push the Resistance - Neer 10
Chapter 132 - Believe - Neer 11
Chapter 133 - Nasty Business - Gareth 5
Chapter 134 - Chase the Dark - Gareth 6
Chapter 135 - Smite Thy Enemies - Gareth 7
Chapter 136 - War Rooming - Leonard 43

Chapter 137 - Assessments are for... - Leonard 44

Chapter 138 - Do what you have to Do - Leonard 45

Chapter 139 - Nothing is Forbidden - Oliver 12

Chapter 140 - Who dares - Amelia 11

Chapter 141 - Battle through the Heavens - Amelia 12

Chapter 142 - Don't Stop for Anything - Leonard 46

Chapter 143 - The men Who Should Know Better - Oliver 13

Chapter 144 - The Burden of the Justicar - Leonard 47

Chapter 145 - Thunder from Above - Leonard 48
Chapter 146 - Behind the Walls - Jeremiah 5
Chapter 147 - Live in the Moment - Oliver 14
Chapter 148 - It is Time - Leonard 49

Chapter 149 - Fault lies in Who Does - Oliver 15

Chapter 150 - Futile Resistance - Amelia 13
Chapter 151 - Diggin In - Leonard 50
Chapter 152 - When in Doubt, Orc - Leonard 51
Chapter 153 - Beyond the Lines - Jeremiah 6
Chapter 154 - Lay in Wait - Gareth 8
Chapter 155 - Stand off - Gareth 9
Chapter 156 - Holy Fervor - Gareth 10
Chapter 157 - Siege Works - Amelia 14
Chapter 158 - Smash Through - Leonard 52
Chapter 159 - Push Back - Leonard 53

Chapter 160 - Do What you Have to - Jeremiah 6

Chapter 161 - Walk In - Leonard 54

Chapter 162 - Shadows of the Mind - Leonard 55

Chapter 163 - Believe - Gareth 11

Chapter 164 - If You Know it's a Trap, is It Still One? - Leonard 56

Chapter 165 - Take the Plunge - Leonard 57

Chapter 166 - Do your Duty - Leonard 58

Chapter 167 - Sing a Song of Subterfuge - Sigurd 6

Chapter 168 - Whisper in the Night - Sigurd 7

Chapter 169 - Ask and Ye Shall Receive - Gerard 4

Chapter 170 - There is Another - Gerard 5
Chapter 171 - Lost Lambs - Damien 5
Chapter 172 - Burn it all - Charry 9
Chapter 173 - The Skies Above - Jean 9
Chapter 174
Chapter 175 - Root Them Out - Jean 11
Chapter 176 - Deep Below - Charry 10
Chapter 177 - The Cavalry - Charry 11

Chapter 178 - Battle through the Heavens - Jean 12

Chapter 179 - Let Them Know - Jean 13
Chapter 180 - Rein it In - Leonard 59
Chapter 181 - Moving Shadows - Amelia 15
Chapter 182 - Old Friends - Amelia 16
Chapter 183 - Lead - Gareth 12

Chapter 184 - Build from the Ashes - Leonard 60

Chapter 185 - Live among Your People - Leonard 61

Chapter 186 - An Old Man - Alaric 1
Chapter 187
Chapter 188 - For the Future - Leonard 63