Something was holding back the rampage of the Heavenly Blood Demon Art....
"The Sevenfold Golden Tendon-Sealing Art, though suppressed by the demonic qi of the Heavenly Blood Demon Art, has not been completely annihilated. Because the one who performed that seal is the Shaolin Holy Monk, who possesses the strongest internal energy. His true vital energy remains unchanged within Dokgo Seong's body, holding back the outbreak of the demonic nature to some degree. But there is nothing to worry about."
The demonic nature of the Heavenly Blood Demon Art grew to an uncontrollable extent the more slaughter it committed. Sajunhwan knew this fact clearly. Dokgo Seong was still steadily killing. Faithfully following his orders.
If the situation progressed like that, the demonic nature of the Heavenly Blood Demon Art would eventually destroy the seal placed by the Shaolin Holy Monk and turn him completely into a demon. Having finished his thoughts, Sajunhwan turned his head toward the Chief Guardian.
"He will definitely rampage, so there is no need to act in haste. But what of Jongriryeong's attitude? Did you not see anything suspicious?"
The Chief Guardian shook his head.
"No unusual signs were visible. Until now, he has faithfully carried out my lord's secret orders."
"Naturally, he must. If he wishes to keep his life, and save his family as well."
Sajunhwan smiled faintly. Jongriryeong, the Supreme Commander of the Guardian Demon King Army, was in truth a spy he had secretly planted. While monitoring Dokgo Seong's every move, he was also a spy tasked with taking command of the Guardian Demon King Army in his stead should Dokgo Seong rampage.
But as he had not been Sajunhwan's confidant from the start, some caution was necessary. Therefore, he had deliberately taken the man's wife and children hostage to prevent him from harboring other intentions. Sajunhwan nodded and looked at the Chief Guardian.
"No matter what occupies you, you must keep track of his movements well. If by any chance he rampages at our main sect's headquarters, everything will come to naught...."
"I shall keep that in mind."
The Chief Guardian bowed his head deeply toward his lord.
It was a day shrouded in deep darkness. Felldrian, which could be called the foremost city of Trubenia, was completely engulfed in darkness. Not even a single ray of light seeped out. A pitch-black darkness where even the moonlight was completely hidden by clouds. On days like this, sneak attacks by the enemy were frequent, so the wall defenders of Felldrian had no choice but to be extremely tense.
"Just let today pass without incident...."
The low voice came from one of the countless watchtowers that lined the walls.
Felldrian had the form of a typical fortress city completely surrounded by walls. The watchtowers densely packed atop those massive walls. They were installed along the walls together with observation towers to easily detect the enemy's approach.
"Damn it. Because of the darkness, I can't make out anything ahead...."
A soldier grumbled softly as he peered outside through the hole in the watchtower.
A haggard face with a bushy beard and filth streaming down. Seeing that the five soldiers inside the watchtower all looked the same, it was evident they had remained here for quite a long time.
A soldier in the corner spat out a remark as if tossing it. A long halberd stood leaning against his side.
"Judging by the situation, it seems the shift change won't happen today either."
"Probably? On moonless days like today, nine times out of ten orc raiding parties will come flying in."
"Even so. Haven't we been stuck here for a full week? I wish I could at least wash up...."
But the soldiers well knew that wish could never be fulfilled. When drinking water was scarce, bathing was truly wishful thinking.
"Damn it. Let's drop it. Hey, McMillan. My eyes feel like they'll fall out from watching outside, so you take over from now on."
"Got it. Pasart."
A blunt-featured soldier called McMillan, who had been leaning against the wall, promptly approached and took over the shift. From the crest etched half-heartedly on his armor, one could tell he was the highest-ranking among them. Pasart, who handed over the heavy crossbow he had been holding to McMillan, leaned deeply against the wall and let out a sigh.
"Tsk, tsk, tsk. All we hear is news of defeat.... At this rate, what will become of our fate?"
The soldiers listening all kept silent. Although they were in the rear, they too could guess that the war situation was dire. Still, they could consider themselves fortunate not to have been deployed to the front lines where casualties were constant. The comrades already deployed there, soldiers who had once lived with them, were now beyond knowing whether they lived or died. As if trying to shake off his unease, Pasart launched into a string of complaints and ramblings.
"Well, at a time like this, what's the difference between front and rear?"
This place, Felldrian, was originally considered the rear. Because even if they kept losing, the frontlines where they clashed with the orc army were far removed from here. However, exploiting that gap, the orc army had infiltrated Felldrian with raiding parties on a large scale, something that frequently occurred on moonless nights like today; thus, this place was no longer safe by any means.
"Those damned bastards! Volunteering for raiding parties even though they know full well they'll die...."
"You don't know. Orcs never fear death. Among the races of Trubenia, you could say the orc race is the one closest to death."
Though he retorted, McMillan's gaze never left the sky beyond the castle walls. The orc raiding parties infiltrated through the very sky. They rode wyverns, beings called the kings of the sky among the monsters on the continent of Trubenia, and launched surprise attacks.
The problem was that the orcs used the wyverns to deploy directly into Felldrian city.
Once deployed, the orc raiding parties immediately began indiscriminate slaughter, causing many civilians to lose their lives in the early days. Until the security forces were deployed, countless people were massacred regardless of age or gender. Of course, the infiltrated orc raiding parties were annihilated without a single survivor, but they had achieved their so-called objective. Which was to throw the citizens of Felldrian into extreme turmoil. Even though they obviously knew the deployed troops could not survive, the orcs kept sending raiding parties. For this reason, the soldiers had to keep the sky through which the wyverns flew under such tight watch without any gaps.
"Well, they have such strong productivity that they can afford to throw away that much fodder...."
McMillan gazed at the sky with hollow eyes. He was wondering what the future of the human race he belonged to would become. Then came Pasart's voice, from someone thought to be asleep.
"But is that guy keeping watch properly?"
"What guy?"
"Ah! That guy who looks like a monster. The mercenary said to be from another continent."
At those words, extreme curiosity surfaced on McMillan's face. He had been assigned to his guard unit a mere fifteen days ago. His face was exceptionally hideous, which had immediately drawn McMillan's interest, and the weapon he carried was also something ordinary soldiers did not use, piquing his curiosity greatly.
*To think he only carries a spiked gauntlet that knights use as a secondary weapon....*
He had been extremely curious as to where the man came from, but crucially, they couldn't communicate, so he couldn't attempt conversation rashly. The one who had brought him was none other than Benites, the court mage of Icarot. Moreover, orders had been given to monitor his actions thoroughly, which inevitably amplified the curiosity. Recalling that fact, McMillan nodded and replied.
"Well, he seems to be keeping watch properly."
Since there had been orders to watch him closely to prevent his escape, McMillan had sent him up to the observation tower atop the watchtower. Of course, since they were guarding the exit from the observation tower like an iron fortress, there was no fear of the foreigner escaping. Half a month had passed since then, but no particular abnormal signs were visible. Whenever they changed shifts and he came down to the watchtower to eat and sleep, there was no conversation exchanged between them. Pasart suddenly scrunched up his face.
"He really is a strange-looking guy. If it weren't wartime, he would have made quite the mercenary with that mug."
"Stop it. That's only from our point of view. Who knows? He might be considered a handsome man where he comes from."
"I don't think so at all?"
As they were chatting amiably, someone knocked on the watchtower door. The soldiers' faces began to brighten.
"It seems the relief shift has finally come."
Pasart, overjoyed, quickly approached the door. Taking every precaution, he opened the small hatch installed in the door, just large enough to expose one's eyes, and looked outside. Realizing those outside were the familiar relief squad, Pasart quickly opened the door.
"Why are you so late?"
The soldiers who entered replied listlessly to Pasart's irritated words.
"What, you think we've been playing around? The corvée labor is so grueling that we've been waiting for the shift change with our eyes falling out.... Try working your ass off after a day's rest, and you'll know how we feel."
Pasart's face contorted sharply.
"Damn it, more forced labor again?"
"What can you do? The draft age was raised to forty, so we're the only ones left to do the labor. They're already mobilizing women too."
Grumbling, Pasart gathered his weapons and equipment as if he had no choice. McMillan and the other soldiers, too, were packing their respective gear. McMillan suddenly turned his body as if remembering something.
"I should pass the word to the foreigner too. He must have suffered in that cramped observation tower...."
"Damn it. Worry about yourself a little."
Ignoring Pasart's words, McMillan climbed the ladder leaning against one side of the watchtower up to the observation tower. The observation tower was built quite high to monitor a wide area.
"Hup."
Propelling himself up with his arms, McMillan found himself in a pitch-dark space less than a meter across. His eyes unaccustomed to the dark, he blinked for a moment. Then his eyes caught a diminutive figure pressed against the window slit, peering outside.
Dressed in chainmail covering only the upper body, layered with light armor like them. Strangely, he held no weapon. He merely wore spiked gauntlets with jagged blades protruding from them on both hands. Seeing that, McMillan's gaze softened slightly.
*I thought he might be sleeping....*
McMillan quietly called out to him.
"Hey. It's time to change shifts."
He heard the other turn his head in the darkness. Without moving, the man stared intently at McMillan's face.
"Damn it. How do I explain this?"
Momentarily at a loss, McMillan tried his best to convey his intentions through hand gestures. Perhaps his efforts were not in vain, for after a moment the foreigner nodded as if he understood and rose to his feet.
McMillan gestured for him to follow and climbed back down the ladder. When they came down to the watchtower, Pasart was stretching repeatedly.
"Ugh! Finally, I can wet my throat with some booze. Heh heh heh."
"Really? Do you even have any booze left? You should consider yourself lucky if it hasn't all been requisitioned...."
As McMillan dropped to the floor quipping, a diminutive figure climbed down the ladder behind him. The moment he straightened his back, the relief soldiers' eyes went wide.
"Wh-what is that guy?"
"Hya! He really is a filthy-looking one."
As if savoring their surprised reactions, Pasart shrugged his shoulders.
"What do you mean, what? He's the foreign mercenary assigned to our guard unit. Really bizarre-looking, isn't he?"
"C-come on, let's hurry and leave. We need to rest too, don't we?"
Unable to watch anymore, McMillan urged them to leave quickly. They pushed through the stares of the guards who looked at the foreigner as if he were a monkey in a zoo and exited the watchtower.
After descending from the wall, they had to make their way through the soldiers for a while. Due to the orc raiding parties, most of the soldiers were living and eating on the wall. In front of the wall, a group of soldiers stood guard with sharp eyes, while behind them, soldiers who had finished their duties were fast asleep.
McMillan's group carefully descended the wall, taking care not to step on them. It was a situation where everyone's nerves were stretched taut by the war. McMillan well knew that if a quarrel broke out in such a situation, it would surely start with drawn blades. After getting off the wall, Pasart asked a question.
"But where are you going to take him?"
"Well, to the guards' quarters to get a meal and some sleep. Though it seems certain he'll be put to forced labor starting tomorrow."
"Really? Then I'll head in first."
Pasart, letting out a long yawn, staggered away. The other soldiers looked at him with extremely envious eyes. And for good reason—the soldier called Pasart was a conscript who had a home and family here. Because he hadn't been dragged to the front lines by sheer luck, he enjoyed such comfort. But the other soldiers, including McMillan, were all alone, with no family to speak of.