30 Years Have Passed Since the Prologue

From all sides, life hits hard, with hot breath, hot blood, and a hot body temperature.

– Clang!

In front of him, Ivan deflects the axe coming straight down with his blade. He raises his arm and strikes. The sharp sound accompanies the deep cut in the enemy’s neck.

The one spilling blood as if gills were forming, yet even until the last moment, he swings his arm to block his path.

Immediately after, a thick forearm strikes down. Thicker than the thigh of an ordinary person, filled with muscles.

Taur nerves respond instantly. Ivan could perceive each split in the air as the small pockets of air disperse.

– Clang! Clang!

At this point, every moment of battle is akin to acrobatics, allowing even one clean hit to drastically reduce combat performance.

Humans die when struck by a blade. With muscles torn, movement becomes impossible, and torn ligaments make even raising an arm difficult.

However.

– Crunch!

– Squeak.

The longsword begins its dance again. It’s difficult to employ the technique of blocking one sense to enhance another, literally because all senses had to be fully utilized.

Smell detects the scent of beasts, hearing picks up the approaching noise of enemy troops, touch gropes through the currents of the wind, and sight observes the ever-changing battlefield.

A deluge of information floods his mind. This is always how one-on-one combat was.

Tiring. It’s harder to endure mentally than physically. But not yet.

– Clang! Clang!

Dodging the axe, cutting through the approaching foe’s forearm, dodging again, skirting the trajectory of the swinging warhammer, and stepping on it.

“Grk?!”

Ivan grabs enemy shoulder and stabs twice into the hollow of his muscle with a dagger. He severs the artery precisely and withdraws. Even without finishing, he’s already a dead man.

So, next. He hurls himself toward the next one.

– Clang—!!

The dagger breaks. It’s fine. He still has two more.

– Clank! Thunk!

With a split-toothed longsword, he throws it, hitting one guy’s shin and charges forward. The stumbling figure seemed slow.

He grasps the falling axe and briefly gauges its weight. 11kg. He’s a mess to handle for a human. Essentially a lump of metal.

Just right.

When slaughtering cattle, you use a different knife to catch them.

Ivan starts swinging the axe. It moves differently from a sword. This time, it’s not about deflecting and thrusting, but about swinging and cleaving.

He walks the path.

“Phew… Phew….”

Forward.

Forward towards the gorge. Towards them head-on. Slowly bringing down the approaching enemies, further ahead.

He clears the path. Without looking back at the dead, dying, or fatally wounded. Forward again.

Clearing a path through enemy lines could be considered a scout’s duty. Forward.

Ignoring the calories depleted by intense activity, the rising body heat, the slowly tilting sun overhead, such unnecessary information is disregarded, and forward again.

Muscles exuding lactic acid, the pain of trying to inhale more oxygen, the tension pushing the brain to its limits until it’s throbbing.

Ignoring such useless information, and forward again.

Killing them, making the path.

That’s his role. Always stepping forward.

“Huff… Huh….”

Emulating Einar’s battles, mimicking Maximilian’s stances, imitating Jill’s postures.

Piecing together the scattered lessons of past days like a mosaic, fitting them into the situation like a puzzle.

Forward.

*

“Bargadal’s warband has disappeared.”

“Yes, My Lord.”

“Where? Where was the last place he was spotted?”

“It was Vertmon.”

“So, what you’re saying is he’s been missing since day one? Are you kidding me? Especially with something this crucial?”

Guillaume throws his helmet and shouts. The adjutant bows deeply and steps back.

No matter how impressive the breakthrough, not all situations are communicated in real-time. Naturally, there could be a day or two of error.

But it’s been three days. Except for Vertmon, all territories are still intact. They’re even mustering soldiers to respond.

“There can’t be a point where they willingly join hands.”

Merely barons mobilizing soldiers, and even cooperating to bolster military strength? Unauthorized military action would undoubtedly be treated as rebellion.

Upon hearing news that they’re willingly gathering soldiers to prepare for regional defense, Guillaume trembles with fear.

He and the other two counts had started their plan with the awareness that if they failed, they would inevitably be labeled as rebels. There might be flaws, but there was no possibility of the overall plan being compromised.

They had the confidence and the situation was ripe. It was now or never.

But what nonsense are those people thinking? Just pitiful land-grabbing rural nobles. How could they expect any great honor from joining hands with local nobles who can’t even be called nobility?

Guillaume clenched his fists and shouted.

“To Vertmon!”

The plan to swiftly punish the demons after touring the destroyed nearby territories had already been set. The reason why the demons suddenly seized Vertmon and entrenched themselves is unknown, but the home base operation is crumbling as the operation unfolds.

A great commander should be able to proceed with the next plan even in such a situation.

“If it comes to this, there’s no choice but to provoke rebellion.”

It’s true that troops have been gathered, and if they mobilize the nobility through this, they can easily overturn the likes of rural barons.

If they provoke it as a pretext, what can they do?

“Oh, right. How many have gathered?”

“We have around two thousand infantry, and about three hundred cavalry, including knights.”

“Is that all?”

“The last time we checked, there were movements indicating a gathering of troops in the nearby territories, but so far, the gathered forces are estimated to be at that level.”

“Huh, I see.”

With that many troops during the farming season, they’ve practically scraped together the entire military strength of the territories. And they’ve mobilized not just one or two territories but even those not directly on the front lines?

Without royal authorization, it would be difficult.

With skepticism in his mind, Guillaume turned his head. His orders were relayed to the army camp, and soon the soldiers began to march behind him.

*

“You, your name.”

A sound like metal being sharpened was heard. Clearly, it was human speech.

Describing the intricacies and complexities of human language with their wide and thick palate and oral structure, Taurs didn’t know how to use language. At least the ones he met conversed in their own native language.

So Ivan couldn’t respond to the unfamiliar words. Instead, he swung his axe.

– Clang!

Another Taurs, who was struggling to survive, lost his head and fell to the ground. Ivan, who mechanically slaughtered the writhing creatures, looked up again at the voice that came back.

“You, your name.”

He was the one with line of fire perception. The strongest and most challenging. He was the one Ivan had succeeded in driving a blade into directly.

It wasn’t easy to ascertain precisely, but even by the standards of that time, he didn’t seem to be someone commonly seen. He surpassed the rank of a captain and might even have been at the level of a ‘lieutenant.’

Ivan poured healing potion from his chest to his forearm while looking at him.

“Name.”

Even as blood poured from his mutilated limbs, the creature smiled and stared at him. His bloodshot eyes gleamed as he stared straight at Ivan.

As the creature muttered again with his lips stained crimson, Ivan approached him with the axe in hand and said,

“Ivan Petrovich Yermov.”

“Ivan. I remember.”

The creature nodded and curled his lips. His yellow-stained teeth, smeared with blood, were visible. It was his way of smiling.

The blade of the axe shot up into the sky, straight as the rising morning sun.

Shading his face with the shadow, the creature spoke as if drawing water from a well.

“My, name.”

“I’m not interested.”

– Clang.

The smiling face still wore a smile as it abruptly fell to the ground.

“Phew…”

Ivan roughly sat down on the ground and rummaged through his belongings. The last remaining nutrition bar was soaked in blood. It wasn’t exactly hygienic, but unless he intended to feast on demon flesh, there was no other choice. Taurs meat tasted so awful. Ivan wiped the nutrition bar and chewed it.

Exhausted.

Yet…

“I’m ten times better than you, Jill Ber.”

From the gorge to this spot, there are probably more dead Taurs bodies in this forest than trees.

*

“It’s not too late, is it?”

“We couldn’t have prepared any faster.”

For several days now, Serte had been anxiously coaxing Noar, who had been on edge. They had done their best for the past four days.

With forces gathered hastily to the point where sleep was almost impossible, and lords coerced under the name of Etarique to gather.

Supply lines were out of the question, so the combat operation would last only a few days at most. After that, the army would naturally disband or defect.

But perhaps that was for the best. If an army of this size were to be maintained for a long time, it would undoubtedly be seen as an excuse for rebellion.

“Fire! Fire spotted!”

“This direction… it’s not related to the trench at all.”

“Let’s go see. We might learn something about where the battle took place.”

“All forces, prepare for combat!”

Black smoke was rising beyond the forest. Since Vertmon had been completely swallowed up by the demons, it was unlikely that the peaceful folk were working in the fields. Therefore, the fire was most likely caused by demons. It seemed to be some kind of camp.

That guy really did tie them up in this forest for five days. Truly alone.

Baron Noar led the soldiers with a soft admiration. Soldiers, made up of small farmers, followed them, wielding old spears.

“Traces of battle!”

“It must have been a fierce battle…!”

About an hour’s walk later, the first corpse appeared. It was already a decaying Taurs corpse. From the severely mutilated state to the blood stains scattered around, and the trees around it, it was clear that the battle had been intense.

Five of them. They caught five head-on against the Taurs.

“The path continues!”

The knight leading the vanguard shouted. A wide path had been cleared enough for two thousand infantrymen to pass through with difficulty.

Through the crumbling forest, the soldiers, holding their spears tightly, advanced with fearful faces.

Looking at the corpses of dead demons and the unmistakable trail they had created, one couldn’t help but feel fear. To peasant farmers, Taurs were nothing short of nightmares.

The deep forest was dimly lit under the afternoon sun. Despite the wide-open path, the darkness engulfed the forest horizontally, making it seem like demons could leap out at any moment.

After comforting the frightened peasants for a while longer, the vanguard shouted that they had found corpses.

“Another battle took place here…”

“From the traces, it seems more like tracking.”

“Using the terrain of the forest to engage little by little and buy time? For five days? It sends shivers down the spine.”

Serte swallowed hard as he looked at the corpses. The shattered bodies of Taurs were scattered everywhere.

The vanguard shouted again that they had found corpses, only about ten more minutes away.

Again, five minutes later, he shouted that they had found corpses, following even larger signs of battle.

Again, and again, and again.

Now, no one in the group spoke up. Not even the vanguard reported back.

“What… is this…?”

They were in the forest. A forest made not of trees, but of corpses of Taurs.

No matter where they looked, all they saw was the debris of dead Taurs on the road.

The afternoon sun was setting in the west.

“One person… accomplished all this…?”

The path was cleared. A narrow, precarious, stinking path.

A path filled with the remains of intestines, muscles, flesh, blood, and countless crows pecking at corpses scattered everywhere.

At the end of the grim path lined with Taurs corpses, a small bonfire was burning.

“Oh, Lord.”

Serte murmured with a trembling hand reaching for the hilt of his sword, involuntarily tensing his muscles.

“Slaughterer…”

“I wouldn’t be able to boast to that extent.”

That was Einar’s nickname.

Ivan, who had been sitting in front of the bonfire, slowly stood up.

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