210: That kind of talk, where strength solves everything

Over ten thousand imperial soldiers surged wildly across the vast plaza, siege engines clashing back and forth. From the cracks in the cobblestones, Craft’s special trichome began seeping out, little by little.

At first, the amount was too small—mixed in with dust from boots and swirling dirt, it didn’t activate properly. That’s why the soldiers initially just thought it was mud oozing up.

While the soldiers remained oblivious, the trichome spread across the ground like thick mud, useless and filthy. Of course, this was part of Alphard’s plan.

Once the mud and dust reached saturation, the imperial soldiers’ movements slowed drastically.

An imperial soldier screamed.

“What the hell is this!? Can’t move my legs!”

“What’s going on!?”

“It’s mud! Mud’s clinging to my feet!”

“Like sludge—slimy, dripping mud!”

The soldiers fighting near the front gate, their movements already frantic, were slowly being sealed in place. The general of the Royal Palace Assault Force, Zett Overal, stationed in the rear, finally sensed something wrong—but it was already too late.

Zett glanced down at his own feet.

Around him, unlike at the front lines, no heavy objects were passing by, so the trimoche had only just begun to seep through, not yet thick enough to tangle his movements.

"Damn it! They’ve hidden a viscous liquid beneath the cobblestones! And how the hell did they manage to mass-produce enough of it to cover such a vast area!?"

Shuddering, Zett recalculated the battlefield situation.

A once-in-a-lifetime chance—the front-line soldiers frozen in place—and yet the kingdom’s forces just stood there, not advancing, not even drawing their bows.

"So that’s it. They’re scared of getting caught in it too. Then we can still fix this. Retreat to the bridge—regroup! Now!"

He shouted the order, hoping that falling back and scattering sand might save them. But his hope died.

All the kingdom’s archers had switched to fire arrows.

"Wait… no way…"

Zaid stared at the worst-case scenario unfolding. And it was real.

The fire arrows struck the ground. Instantly, dozens of flames shot up, spreading in seconds.

Craft’s trichome was laced with the same incendiary compound that had burned Cocatris’s corpse to ash.

From atop the wall, Alphard watched the fire spread with cold detachment.

Whispering a quiet “sorry” as flames wrapped around fleeing Imperial soldiers, Alphard issued another extraordinary command.

“Magic Corps! Use wind magic to stir the fire and air!”

At Alphard’s order, the mages summoned vast amounts of air—oxygen—from around them, and the flames roared higher.

The wide open space, hemmed in on three sides by high city walls, now looked like a massive furnace. Imperial soldiers screamed once, then vanished into ash in an instant.

“…Not a sight for children. But mercy I’ve given more than once. Some among them may have been loyal warriors. Still, curse the rulers who made Kyle their enemy. Curse me—the one who planned and executed this.”

Alphard muttered, eyes fixed on the scene below, when Raidock tapped his shoulder.

Don’t go playing hero all by yourself. The empire started the war. We all decided to protect our town—don’t act like you’re the only one who made that call.

…Yeah. I did what a soldier should do. Still don’t regret it, but… a little lighter, at least.

No way to save everyone. But you did save a lot of empire folk, really.

Hope so.

I’ll guarantee it. …Well then, I’m off to do my own job.

You really don’t need regular soldiers?

Call it rough, but they’re just dead weight. I’d want you on board, but a commander doesn’t go to the front lines.

…Count on me.

Leave it to me.

Saying that, Raidock leapt from the city wall. Ten stories high—yet not a scratch on him. To Raidock, the Sword Saint’s mark made even such a fall a child’s game.

Following right behind, Camille dropped from somewhere unseen—no one even noticed when. Just like a kunoichi, she vanished without a trace.

The vast battlefield square was already nothing but ash. The imperial soldiers had been incinerated in an instant, consumed by a storm of searing heat. They didn’t even suffer.

In the gray wasteland, a few imperial soldiers stood, fury burning in their eyes.

This was a world of swords and magic. Survivors—warriors forged beyond human limits, wielders of enchanted gear, casters of spells—were expected.

Every last one of them glowed with a colored insignia.

Raidock approached with no slack in his guard, voice cutting through the silence.

“You’re done. Surrender already?”

A surviving general of the dying empire shouted. He was the commander appointed to lead the assault on the royal palace.

“Denied! We are warriors sworn to the empire! We won’t die until we’ve struck back!”

“Is that so…”

Raidock lowered his eyes, just slightly. Sad.

Every last one of the empire’s survivors was a one-in-a-thousand warrior. Any normal army would’ve been wiped out by them alone—any fool could see that.

If they went all out, they could kill tens of thousands of royal soldiers. Sure, they’d all die too. But that’s the kind of power the top-tier nobles in this world wield.

The imperial general glared at Raidock and Camille.

“You really understand our strength… and still stand here with just the two of you?”

"By this point, numbers mean nothing, right?"

"We're the sharp end of the imperial blade. Sure, we can't take down the kingdom—Goldendown—but we can leave a wound that'll never heal."

"Yeah. That's why I'm here."

The imperial general, who'd thought Raidock was just a messenger come to demand surrender, finally understood. His blood boiled in an instant.

"You're serious about your strength! And you, girl too! But you're saying two of you will face all of us?!"

That was the ultimate insult. They weren't just soldiers. They were beings beyond humanity.

Of course, the young man before them was one of them. Still, to claim two of them could stop the top dozen or so from the empire? Their pride was shredded to pieces.

"My name is Zett Overl! Second in command of the Imperial Knight Corps, and commander of the Royal Palace Assault Force!"

Commander Zett pointed his massive crimson flamberge at Raidock.

"Raidock. This time, I'm in charge of leading the militia."

"……Camille Casper."

They exchanged brief greetings. Zett gave a small nod in response.

"No more words needed! Advance!"

Zett's left hand blazed with light, visible even through his gauntlet. His entire body ignited, the flamberge wreathed in hellfire.

He shouted at the woman approaching him.

"Carina!"

"Leave it to me! Serpent Spiral Fang!"

The lone surviving woman, clad in expensive light armor, drew a lavish mithril bow and fired dozens of arrows in an instant.

Like a serpent coiling, darting unpredictably, it lunged at Raidock—then suddenly exploded midair.

“Wha—!?”

The female archer known as Kaelina glanced up atop the city wall. There stood a woman with a nasty glare, bow already drawn and finished.

Impossible. All of Kaelina’s arrows had been knocked down from that distance.

“…No way…”

“Tch! No need for backup!”

Zaid had planned to cleave Raidock in two with arrows, but abandoned that plan. He swung Flamberge down with everything he had—straight for the kill.

The power of Flame Knight’s insignia he wielded was fire. He’d planned to reduce the swordsmaster to ash with his inferno, then blast him clean off the field—but the blue-clad swordsman just swayed like a willow in the wind, lightly flicking his blade, and deflected Zaid’s heavy sword with ease.

“Chee! Not bad yet!”

Zaid forced the arc of his massive sword, Flamberge, into a wild shift, aiming to cleave Raidock’s head off—but Raidock blocked it straight on with his blade.

A two-handed strike, blazing hot, but Raidock parried it with one hand alone.

Even more shocking—the blade of Flamberge, hot enough to melt steel, had chipped.

“W-what the hell!?!”

“Just a little hot, old man.”

“Don’t play around!”

He kept pouring on the heat, pressing forward, yet the brat kept his cool, unmoving. That’s when he finally realized—there was a difference in arms, in strength, in sword, in everything.

“T-that sword… is phantom orichalcum!?”

“Correct. Though it’d be the same with a steel blade. Get some rest. Infinite Snow Moonflower—Infinite Blizzard!”

Raidock’s casual words unleashed a technique he’d learned in the Mizoho Shrine Nation. Cold materialized, instantly snuffing out Zett’s flames and then striking Zett with such force that he collapsed unconscious.

“Relax, it’s just a peak strike.”

Politically speaking, Alphard had asked, if possible, to capture him alive.

“Seriously? You’re kidding.”

Yet he pulled it off without hesitation. That’s what made it terrifying.

“Now then, let’s finish up the rest.”

Raidock spoke casually, resting his sword on his shoulder.