Chapter 81

The war cry echoed in every direction. Soldiers shedding blood, soldiers wielding swords, those holding arrows and staves – all screamed without distinction.

“Advance! One of the enemy’s archdemons is still preoccupied with mending his form! We have three generals! Now is the chance! Press on! Stake your lives! Claim survival!”

Officers watching the battle from the rear drew the sidearms fastened to their waists and charged toward the front lines. It was not only the soldiers clad in steel at the vanguard whose blood was boiling.

An officer, who no one would have faulted for simply issuing orders from the rear, freely threw himself into the thick of the fight. This sight bolstered the soldiers’ morale even further. All who stood here, regardless of rank or race, were remarkable heroes gathered to defend the peoples of the continent.

“Tch.”

Bel clicked his tongue, watching the lieutenant colonel charge into the battle wielding a thin rapier for self-defense. There was no more effective tactic than for a commander to lead from the front to raise the morale of the troops… Nevertheless, Bel, an efficiency expert, couldn’t bring himself to feel pleased by the situation.

A flower of blood bloomed on the excessively heated battlefield. Red and green petals burst forth in alternating waves within each other’s formations.

Consumed by the fervor of battle, the soldiers were gradually transformed into madmen. Well-ordered formations began to crumble under the weight of individual elation and frenzy.

If they’re wounded fighting at the front like that, who will issue the orders? He was already sugar deficient, and this situation of having to use brain cells for something other than magic felt like a waste.

“Leave the command to me.”

Grisha, having momentarily caught Bel’s distorted expression as he watched the state of the war, spoke quickly.

Bell did not bother with a thank-you to Grisha. Only a suspicious glare, asking ‘Can you even do this?’ Grisha responded to the look with a great shout, directing the soldiers.

“Infantry on the right flank! The distance to the main force is too great! Keep your heads cool! The wounded, raise your left hands high and I will heal you immediately! Elven archers, I would be grateful if you focused less on sniping and more on providing additional bombardment! “

A slender voice descended upon the madness-filled battlefield. Her voice possessed an unidentifiable power. Perhaps this was what people called ‘divine force’? Soldiers, succumbing to the frenzy of battle and spiraling into chaos, regained their composure in an instant, slowly realigning their ranks and advancing.

“For Astellaaa!”

One of the soldiers answered the Saintess’s command with a great shout. Saintess Grisha, too, responded to their roar, shouting back “For Astella!”

“…Passable, I suppose.”

“You learn a thing or two by watching.”

Grisha looked relieved that Bell’s brain wouldn’t have to be strained any further.

“Do not falter! The Saintess is with us! Astella is with us!”

Hearing Grisha’s voice, the soldiers maintained a disciplined formation, so unlike the men consumed by battle lust and frenzy only moments before. Now, they were calmly assessing not only the enemy before them, but also where their comrades stood, and what they needed.

“…We witness reverence. You keep our eyes and hearts devout, more than ever before, and cleanse the blood from our bodies. Ah, you are messengers of Astella…”

It was all thanks to Grisha.

She closed her eyes, hands clasped together, and recited an incantation.

If Bean had seen it, he would have thought of ‘Grace of Purification.’ The ultimate status ailment cure in the game, by that very name.

A technique that healed not only simple ailments like fear, silence, or dizziness, but also serious injuries like poisoning, bleeding, and fractures.

A radiant halo, brighter than sunlight, enveloped the Saintess’s back. Poison that had pierced armor, and broken bones, began to heal in an instant.

The process of bones being reassembled caused muscles and flesh to tear, and the process of purifying the poison caused blood to boil, but there were no soldiers left on this battlefield who would whine about such pain.

Originally a high-level technique difficult to use properly even on one person, Grisha was now effortlessly bestowing ‘Grace of Purification’ upon everyone on this battlefield.

A skill worthy of being called a Saintess, but no one bothered to exclaim in admiration at her ability.

They had seen it every single day, after all.

“…These vermin!”

*CRASH!*

A scream, near to a shriek, and another deafening crack cleaved the battlefield.

A massive arrowhead hurtled towards Bean, exceeding the speed of sound. And once more, the ‘Blessing of the Spirit’ activated.

A blue barrier enveloped the boy in an instant, only for the sonic boom to belatedly crash over his fragile form. His ears rang, and his head spun.

It seemed Archduke Ariel, wielder of the gargantuan arrows, had almost fully recovered from his wounds.

“…At that speed, that sort of sniping… even I can’t react fast enough to put up a shield! I’m so sorry!” Grisha called out, her tone polite and gentle.

*…She’s trying to manage her Saintess image, now that everyone’s watching,* Bean thought.

Thanks to Grisha’s assistance, the front line was advancing with greater stability. Wounds were healed almost as soon as they were inflicted, allowing the soldiers to fight with an aggression they normally wouldn’t dare attempt. As a result, the allied forces were exhibiting three to four times their usual combat prowess.

“Damn it…”

Archduke Raguel, boasting enormous wings, had already soared high into the sky, gazing down upon the battlefield. Bean, though not flying like that monster, could tell that the tide of war had shifted in an instant.

It was all thanks to Bell and Grisha, who were intercepting the enemy’s aerial assault without losses and multiplying the soldiers’ fighting capabilities.

“Maltiel, Michael! Are you just going to stand there and watch!”

Archduke Raguel, flying through the cerulean sky, roared, calling out the names of two other Archdukes who had yet to reveal themselves on the battlefield.

“…Tch.”

The next moment, Bean heard a tongue click emanating from a direction he couldn’t quite pinpoint. It was a chilling, unsettling sound, one he knew well from experience.

Red skin, jet-black eyes. Smaller wings than Raguel’s, but still substantial, and hideously long fingernails.

Archduke Maltiel emerged from beyond the hills of a deserted zone, some distance away. His leisurely gait exuded a sense of ease, but his expression was a mask of annoyance.

The moment Maltiel appeared, the hard-packed earth began to tremble once more. Just what had these damned demons hidden beneath the surface? Something was always popping up to fluster the allied forces.

They were… grotesque aberrations, like gigantic insects. Among them, a monstrous centipede-like creature stood out most vividly; Vin involuntarily gagged at the sight of it using what looked like someone’s severed arms as legs.

“…Truly, things have tangled themselves into such a knot.”

Not far from Maltiel, Mikael, too, revealed his face upon the battlefield.

“I always anticipated that the three generals would appear on the frontlines simultaneously. If this battle continues as it is, they’ll only wither away. From their perspective, they needed to gamble with such a daring move, at least once.”

Maltiel spoke calmly, coldly. He seemed to have anticipated that the Continental Allied Forces would forcibly boost their morale and mount a counterattack, at least for a moment.

“Normally, wouldn’t it be better to withdraw our soldiers rather than meeting such a last-ditch effort head-on?”

Mikael didn’t seem to favor Maltiel’s decision. Humoring the enemy’s desperate struggle was far removed from the tactics favored by the Mazoku.

“If we withdraw our soldiers, the pressure we’ve applied thus far will slacken. And if the pressure slackens, Vin might escape. We mustn’t retreat from this battle, even if it means deploying all the Grand Dukes.”

“…The most rational decision is to indulge in such a desperate act. Tactics are truly profound.”

Mikael listened to Maltiel, pondering deeply, before lightly nodding as if convinced, muttering to himself.

“If our ultimate goal was to occupy this land, I, too, would have withdrawn our soldiers at this juncture. But that’s not our objective, is it?”

Maltiel smirked, slowly turning his head.

At the end of that chilling smile, stood Vin.

Vin felt as if a sharp blade had grazed the nape of his neck.

And so, the boy instinctively brought his hand to his slender neck, checking to see if anything was amiss. Rex, who was standing guard right beside him, seemed to have felt the same sensation, letting out a soft sigh and bracing himself.

“…Four Grand Dukes, all visually confirmed.”

As soon as Grisha identified the figure beyond that hill as Mikael, he relayed the information to Bel.

“Acknowledged.”

Bel raised his palm high, chanting a few words in a low voice. Soon, a black dot coalesced on his hand and soared into the sky.

The inky speck, rising higher and higher, pierced the cloudless, clear sky, ascending endlessly.

*Whoosh!*

At once, immense heat and scorching air pressed down upon the area.

The azure sky, in a moment of stark brilliance, transformed to a searing crimson.

Vin lifted his gaze to locate the source of this overwhelming heat and light.

He could see it: a massive meteorite, forged from coalesced flames.

‘For the last two weeks, Bell has been almost solely responsible for suppressing the Archlord on the battlefield. The mana remaining within him is probably only about a tenth of what it usually is.’

Even so, that was enough.

Bell Artua was unequivocally the continent’s most powerful mage.

Undoubtedly, the vessel that contained his mana was immeasurably larger than that of others. Even a tenth of it would be unparalleled compared to that of an ordinary mage.

Bell Artua was, because of this, a general.

It was a truth that became physically palpable through this enormous inferno.

“…Michael.”

“I know.”

Gazing at the colossal fiery meteorite dominating the sky, Michael and Maltiel exchanged a brief exchange.

Immediately after, Michael’s finger pointed toward the crimson meteorite plummeting toward them, and

the earth began to tremble.

The fleshy masses, buried within the hardened mud, rose high into the air, responding to Michael’s will. Mutants sprawled across the ground, dripping with green blood, arms and legs belonging to someone, red and blue blood.

Every ‘corpse’ present on the battlefield surged skyward like a massive wave, colliding with the red meteorite falling toward the ground.

Rain of blood and fire pours down from the dark red sky.

* * *

The northernmost front.

Braving the arid wind, a man clad in pristine white garments gazed thoughtfully at the southern sky from atop the thick, towering ramparts.

His auburn hair, leather coat, the stark white of his robes, and the slender longsword at his hip, all spoke volumes of who he was.

Strands of reddish-brown, cropped hair danced lightly in the wind, while crimson glints reflected in the depths of his eyes.

As if he had awaited this very moment, the man withdrew a throwing dagger from the inner pocket of his coat and held it ready in his hand.

“Lord General?”

A soldier standing guard nearby called out to the man, startled by the sudden appearance of the dagger.

“Why the dagger so suddenly…”

*BANG!*

The wind tore, the ramparts shuddered, and a blade of light erupted from the hand of the man in the leather coat.

What followed was a sound like the explosion of a powder magazine. Snow piled on the trees scattered to the ground in the immense shockwave, and the sleeves of the leather coat reddened with friction against the air.

The dagger traveled far beyond where the other guards could see, reaching somewhere beyond the snow-covered horizon.

At the end of the dagger’s journey stood a high-ranking demon tasked with “Monitoring the Sword Saint,” a fact unknown to anyone atop the ramparts.

“Sergeant! Round up all the soldiers on the wall and get them down below, every last one of them.”

“Are you saying we should order the watchmen off the wall, sir?”

“I need a clear run-up.”

“…Sir?”

The soldiers standing on the frost-covered ramparts hesitated, a look of utter confusion on their faces.

“You can get the details from the other generals.”

Though he didn’t understand the command, the sergeant, spurred by the added words, hurried away to relay the man’s order.

The soldiers descended the walls immediately, using ladders or stairs. Though they might harbor doubts about the man’s words, no one dared disobey.

He walked slowly towards the edge of the empty rampart.

His auburn hair whipped in the wind.

Like a sprinter preparing to launch, he braced his hands on the ground, heels raised.

“…Haaah.”

A single, deep breath.

The next instant, the ground beneath him shattered. The wall staggered as if struck squarely by a colossal catapult, frost-rimed bricks exploding skyward.

He sprinted along the empty wall as though it were a perfectly straight racetrack. As the man accelerated to speeds beyond sound, deafening cracks echoed everywhere.

Thoom!

Reaching the wall’s end, the man kicked off the ground once more, with earth-shattering force.

His body shot forward with an immense shockwave, exceeding the velocity of any cannonball or bullet.

The wall’s edge, unable to withstand the recoil, crumbled.