Chapter 80

Valorand.

In Valorand, the most fiercely contested battleground on the continent, the rearmost lines were steeped in a chaos and cacophony to rival the front itself. Screams spilled mostly from the mouths of the wounded, while confusion issued from the priests and medics struggling to manage them.

New recruits, as if with fire beneath their heels, darted this way and that to supply arrows, swords, and shields to the front lines. Officers scurried, working to calm panicked soldiers and dispatch them to positions where they might impact the war’s tide.

Nuns and priests had no breath left to catch as they transported and treated the injured, while the wounded simply screamed in agony.

“A priest or sister, quickly! The squad leader’s about to expire!”

“The front lines are short on arrows! Quartermaster, send men now to resupply them! It’s urgent!”

“Tell Second Company to withdraw to the rear; the demons’ eyes are focused on the front lines for now…”

*KRA-KOOM!*

A silence, brief but absolute, descends upon the chaotic rear lines. A rupture of sound, coupled with immense light, numbs their senses. Caught in the sudden flash, some of the wounded believed their end had finally arrived.

The flashes and explosions repeat again and again. Only after belatedly regaining their senses do the soldiers in the rear realize that lightning and thunder were the culprits blinding their eyes and deafening their ears. All eyes turn toward the front.

From afar, the front lines were nothing short of pandemonium.

A dense blanket of dark clouds smothered the sky, sucked into the heart of the front lines with unprecedented speed. A barrage of colossal lightning strikes ceaselessly lashed the battlefield. Even from the rear lines, tens of kilometers away, the thunder resonated in their bones with a deafening roar, and the very air thrummed with heat against their skin.

After nearly a minute of celestial fury, the heavens, as if nothing had happened, shamelessly revealed their blue face.

Most soldiers, unable to grasp the situation, were frozen in a trance, their expressions blank. However, a black-haired magician with a pipe clenched between his teeth merely gazed at the front lines with a satisfied smile.

“…That’s more than I expected.”

Standing beside the black-haired magician, Bell Artua, who puffed on his pipe, was the Saintess Grisha. Laughter filled their bloodshot eyes.

“He’s Alter Heindel’s favorite pupil, isn’t he? And the youngest Fifth Circle magician in history. It’s no surprise he’s showing such promise.”

Bell nodded slightly at Grisha’s words. Though from a different school, he seemed relieved at the emergence of such a capable junior.

“How many Overlords do you see?”

“Hmm… give me a moment.”

Grisha replied lightly, leaning forward. Thanks to the buff enhancing her senses, Grisha’s eyes were now more discerning than even those of the Elves.

“…Right now, there are two Overlords visible to the naked eye. One… is recovering from the aftereffects of being fried by lightning, and the other is testing the waters. Just as I expected, the mist and dark clouds have cleared… and the soldiers’ eyes seem different, too?”

“What about the other two?”

“Not visible with the naked eye. Probably hiding somewhere.”

“Right. Either way, they’ll probably just hide in some shadowy place and watch until the two of us show ourselves. Even if they hesitate for a moment, Overlords are Overlords; it’s hard to imagine those two monsters being killed by the soldiers currently at the front.”

“Are you sure you’re alright? You used quite a bit of mana.”

“I only pretended to be drained of mana for the sake of the plan; I still have plenty left.”

“…….”

Grisha pretended not to notice Bel’s bravado.

Bel had indeed saved some mana… but considering the scale of the battle that was about to unfold, the mana remaining within him was far from sufficient.

In her heart, she wanted to tell him to stay in the rear. But she knew very well that Bel wouldn’t even lend an ear to such a suggestion.

“Let’s go.”

Bel slowly started down the hill. Grisha followed behind him with a worried expression, and the officers and soldiers who saw them bombarded Bel with anxious questions, wondering where he was going in his exhausted state.

“To win.”

Hearing that reply, the officers and soldiers blocked his path, questioning if he wasn’t out of mana.

“I am the supreme commander of this battlefield. The greatest turnaround in history is about to occur, and you’re telling me to lie in a bed in my tent and suck my thumb?”

Hearing Bel’s cold voice, the soldiers could no longer stop him. Only new questions spilled from their lips.

“…Did you say turnaround?”

“A reversal that will etch itself into the annals of the continent. Remember this moment.”

Remember this moment.

The words weren’t just for the soldiers standing before him now. They were for the men buried somewhere on that battlefield, reduced to dust.

Bell’s left arm throbbed again. A ringing assaulted his ears. He couldn’t distinguish if it was the aftermath of the thunder barrage that had ripped through the battlefield, or the echo of some other wound.

An unnervingly pleasant south wind began to blow.

Too gentle, too serene, for a wind that greeted those marching into war.

* * *

A fever took hold.

Steel blades and shields grew hot, the voices of the mages rose, the archers’ fingertips burned on their bows.

The air was overheated, and the soldiers were agitated beyond measure.

The infantry advanced, their boots striking the hardened ground, as Raguel, the Grand Duke with his magnificent wings, spoke lowly against them, “Hold the line.”

Then, the hard-packed earth began to tremble. Mutants, hidden in the no man’s land of mud, revealed themselves.

They were crumbling, their bodies ravaged by the storm Rir had conjured, burned black, but still they moved.

“Tch, less than half survived.”

Raguel clicked his tongue, his gaze sharp with annoyance as he raised a finger. At his command, the charred masses of flesh surged forward, wielding thick axes and greatswords.

The soldiers dealt with the wounded mutants easily enough. Weary as they were, these were the elite, the best of the best. Not even mutants scorched by lightning could halt their advance.

“High Lord approaching from the one o’clock position! Leading a squadron!”

A report, bordering on a scream, came from behind the ranks. It was the voice of an elf with a large bow.

Where the soldiers turned their eyes, winged demons stained the blue sky as they flew toward them.

“Prepare for interception!”

The vanishing mist and receding storm clouds gifted them quick eyes on the enemy. Elven archers and mages alike aimed staffs and arrows in unison, and a storm of sharpened points tore through the air.

One arrow, freed from its bowstring, struck true in the heart of a high-ranking demon, tens of kilometers distant. The speed defied belief, impossible for a mere mortal archer.

“Favorable winds.”

The archers’ volleys were bolstered by the mages of the Atmosphere school. A gaping hole, as if blasted by a cannon, appeared in the demon’s chest, and a shockwave rippled outward, striking demons nearby.

“Futile resistance…!”

The high-ranking demon, his body already mending from the ruin to his chest, roared.

“The location of the core?!”

“No time for pinpointing! Sooner or later, we’ll hit the core! Unload everything!”

The archers’ arrows erupted skyward, a fountain of death. Compressed air at the arrows’ fletchings ignited like gunpowder with each chanted word.

Beholding the arrow-rain descending, the winged high-ranking demons raised their palms. A shimmering curtain enveloped them, then extended, deflecting the arrow-rain. The arrows, flying in taut lines, abruptly veered off course, scattering in every direction.

It wasn’t so much a sturdy shield blocking the assault, but more like a master martial artist redirecting a blow.

“Damn it! Physical attacks aren’t going to work?!”

One of the archers cried out, watching the high-ranking demons deflect the onslaught. It was a sight unseen.

And there was no time to analyze this never-before-seen magic, to find a weakness. Even now, the high-ranking demons were diving at breakneck speed, poised to rain magic down upon the foot soldiers.

Failure to intercept them would surely bring heavy losses to their ranks.

“Changing tactics! Archers, support the ground troops! Mages, engage in direct interception…”

“Hellfire.”

Cutting through the officer’s shouted command, a voice, cold and piercing, swept through the air.

*KRAKOOM!*

The next instant, a colossal black spot bloomed amidst the approaching high-ranking demons, expanding violently and erupting in a blinding light.

A great sphere of light, embracing all around, descended out of nowhere.

The already heated armor, shields, and swords of the soldiers grew searingly hotter.

In the intense heat, the soldiers felt like seafood trapped in a steamer. Yet, rather than complaints or cries of pain, they burst into shouts of joy.

For there was only one magician in this world who could conjure such a grand inferno with a single, low-spoken word.

“All troops, do not cease your advance.”

The voice was cold, sharp, and brimming with a keen edge. Beneath the fury in that voice lay a strange mix of injustice and sorrow.

Over raven-black hair, faint ashes began to settle. In the wake of the massive explosion, nothing remained.

Behind the man who had reduced dozens of high-ranking demon lords to ash with a mere utterance stood a woman in priest’s robes, stained thickly with blood and mud. She whispered a quiet prayer for the blood-soaked battlefield and the soldiers wielding their swords upon it.

“We are behind you.”

The black-haired magician muttered, brushing the ash from his head and letting out a low curse.

Great Lord Raguel wore an expression of considerable bewilderment at Bel’s arrival.

“…You’re barely clinging to your magic. Did you forget that demons can see magical power? Any more magic and you’ll collapse from exhaustion.”

“Worrying about someone else’s mana… You’re talking nonsense… How annoying.”

Bel seemed to pay no mind to Raguel’s words.

“Ah! It’s that brat! You’re not confident that that kid, still far from reaching their full potential, can win against the demon lords. But you can’t bear to let their potential go to waste, so… you’ve come to die in their place. A logical decision, I must admit.”

After briefly assessing the situation, Raguel began to proclaim his interpretation of Bel’s motives, as if he had read his mind. Bin clicked his tongue internally. *’That imbecile actually thinks Bel dragged his exhausted body to the battlefield just to save me.’*

“So, do you have an escape plan? How are you going to extract that brat while facing four demon lords? 80 percent of Valerand’s lands are in the hands of the demons. How will you rescue that brat now…”

“Soldiers!”

Bel shouted, cutting off Raguel’s words. The soldiers, wielding their swords and shields, could not help but be momentarily stunned by the magician’s voice, which was unexpectedly loud and commanding.

“…That wretched b*stard.”

Openly disregarded, Raguel’s face twisted, making his displeasure known for all to see.

“Everyone! Did you all have a hearty breakfast this morning?”

Of course, whether Raguel showed his displeasure or not, Bel continued his address.

“I don’t know where each of your homelands are! But if you didn’t fill your bellies this morning, you’ll likely suffer from hunger all day. There won’t be any dinner served tonight!”

The black-haired mage’s pronouncement carried a weighty resonance. In this general, who had witnessed countless blood and deaths over the past two months, dwelled a profound sorrow no one could fathom.

“There will be no celebratory banquet for today’s victory! Most of you soldiers would rather spend the evening with your families than with the same sorry faces you’ve been stuck with for two months.”

At the tone, so sure of victory, the soldiers stared blankly at one another, then slowly, a faint smile began to spread.

The weight of Bel’s words was on another level compared to that of other commanders.

Bel didn’t offer the kind of lies designed to boost morale like other ordinary commanders. He had never once uttered a simple, convenient falsehood, such as that supplies were arriving soon, or that the situation was turning in their favor.

“Soldiers, thank you for surviving until today! And I have just one more request to make!”

He assessed the present situation with relentless composure, and conveyed it to the soldiers exactly as it was. Perhaps it was just his nature, but to soldiers living with the constant fear of dying tomorrow, Bel had always spoken only of the cold, hard reality.

“Endure this pain for just one more day! Rage for just one more day! Cut down your enemies for just one more day! For just one more day, fight to the death!”

When he said a mission was ‘high-risk,’ it was practically a suicide mission from which it was unlikely anyone would return alive. When he said a mission was ‘easy,’ it was so simple you could do it with your eyes closed.

“In return, I will bring you victory. I will kill every last one of your arch-lords.”

So… his confidence in victory like this was a good sign for the soldiers.

Bel would sooner have his tongue cut out than spout such pleasant lies to his men.

The soldiers were certain.

Bel had been holding back some kind of trump card, and he was about to play it now.

The word ‘bluff’ was entirely incompatible with the man named Bel Artua.

He was an utterly cynical realist, a ruthless pragmatist, and a flawless strategist without a hint of imperfection.

“Your revenge! I, Bel Artois, general of the Continental Allied Forces, shall take responsibility and see it done!”

Bel Artois roared, as if expelling the deep-seated resentment that had accumulated within his heart.

“Survival is not given freely! So struggle, soldiers! Seize it, soldiers! Sacrifice your lives, soldiers! If you do not wish to taste this hell again tomorrow, scream and steel yourselves to have your hearts pierced by the enemy’s blades!”

“Uaaagh!”

In response to Bel’s cry, the soldiers howled in unison. The hands gripping their swords trembled with a feverish intensity, and their arms and legs were slick with sweat from the heat of battle.

The soldiers tore through the flesh before them, advancing ever faster. Poison-laced blood melted their armor and shields, but the soldiers paid it no mind.

“Let us die together.”

The heat of the battlefield had now reached its peak.