Military headquarters were chaotic on any front line, but they were
especially busy when a war neared its conclusion. Even after the fighting
was all said and done, a flood of bureaucrats would sweep in to assist with
the occupation.
Currently, the strategists were collating information brought by
messengers from all directions, examining each piece, inserting it where it
belonged, and endeavoring to maintain a current map of the battlefield.
Beyond that, they would need to tabulate the casualties and arrange
transport for the prisoners. Menial tasks like corpse disposal tended to fall
by the wayside during war.
Either way, information that came to Marshal Valerian Ein Aubigne was
confirmed and accurate.
So when the news he'd been waiting for arrived, he looked genuinely
relieved.
"Sir, we've definitely broken through the elven defenses. Enemy
resistance is down seventy percent. That seems slightly high, but the lack of
strong fighters on their side seems to have had a significant impact. We
believe the remaining forces are in hiding throughout the city. How shall we
proceed?"
"Avoid unnecessary casualties. Holed up guerrillas are no real threat, but
those moving freely about the city using disruptive tactics could hurt us.
Expand our occupied territory, apply pressure, flush the elves into the open
—and into our nets. Avoid fighting indoors. Make sure stronger individuals
are placed in each squad sent into the city itself."
"Yes, sir. I'll send word."
"Any elves who break through the perimeter are undoubtedly on suicide
runs. Keep reminding all posts to remain vigilant."
"Understood."
" We've cleared a path, but is there any response from the castle?"
"None. Silent as ever."
Normally, Valerian's expression would have darkened here.
It was hard to believe the castle was completely abandoned. Odds were
the elf elite were defending it. And officers from all corners would have
retreated there. And there was the elf king himself.
The elemental that king commanded had just recently eliminated the
Firestorm Scripture's subleader. Though not quite a hero, he had stood on
the threshold—and died easily.
And the Theocracy had records from a century ago showing that a Black
Scripture team composed entirely of hero-class members had been
demolished by the elf king's raw power. The strategy they'd employed was
lost to time, but it appeared to have worked—so this foe was hardly
invulnerable. But the armies Valerian commanded would be little use
against him—arguably, the war with the elves had yet to clear its greatest
obstacle.
But—their ace had arrived.
"Keep me updated. We're ready to carry out an assault?"
"Yes, they're awaiting orders."
With that word, Valerian rose from his seat.
"Then we've done our part. Good work, men. Have them remain on
standby a good distance from the castle and focus on your other tasks. I'll
report to our guest."
He left the tent, headed for another. The owner of that tent was not big
on visitors and not someone you could afford to annoy.
Valerian spoke from outside the tent flap.
"Pardon me. May I come in?"
"Go ahead."
A ready response.
Valerian took a deep breath before stepping in.
Not because their guest was a threat. They'd met upon her arrival and he
found her altogether rational. But he always had to brace himself before
facing any of the Black Scripture's heroes—individuals who far surpassed
the realm of mortal man. He knew she would not harm him, but he had to
act as if stepping into the cage of a carnivorous beast.
And that wasn't the only reason.
The guest within was not only a powerful hero, they were exceptional
even by Theocracy standards.
It was possible for races to crossbreed, but within the Theocracy, this
was taboo.
Their country existed to ensure a bright future for humans alone, and all
other races—even humanoid ones—were their enemies.
But that stance had begun a mere century ago. Before that, the
Theocracy had been mindful of the welfare of other humanoid races and
explored the idea of fighting alongside them.
That had all changed one day—and this guest of theirs was a big part of
the reason why.
She was the Theocracy's strongest warrior and possessed a lengthy life
span. She had been trained by one reputed to be their divine protector—
about whom little was known beyond their existence. That was the sum of
what Valerian had been told about her.
But in that sea of uncertainty lay a few convictions.
For one thing, when he had been promoted to marshal, he had been
specifically told to never cross her. Not that he was foolish enough to try
and act superior around the king of the jungle.
He peeled back the tent flap and found a basic chair and bed, a shelf and
a table with a helmet on top. From the outside, it looked like any other tent,
but the furnishings within were rather high quality. All brought from the
Theocracy via Teleportation, their quality far beyond what lay in the
marshal's own tent.
She was in the center, armor gleaming—hopping up and down.
"May I ask what you're doing?" he asked, baffled. Some unique ritual,
perhaps?
"Mm? Nothing in particular. I just felt the need to stay in motion."
"I see."
She hopped for another few seconds, then stopped.
"No need to stand on formalities," she said. "Technically, you outrank
me."
Despite what her words, she was not exactly acting like she was
speaking to a superior officer.
"I'm afraid that is unacceptable. You are the Theocracy's finest and
disciple of the divine protector."
"So stiff! But suit yourself. I take it seeing you here means what I think
it means?"
"Indeed. Only the castle remains. We assume surviving forces are
gathering there…"
"I'll handle 'em. But I'm only targeting the one man, so don't expect me
to make a clean sweep."
"Understood. We'll leave him in your hands."
The girl they called No Death–No Life smiled.
Valerian felt compelled to avert his eyes.
That bloodlust was not for him. He knew that. But he could not suppress
the fear.
"Oh, sorry. Can I ask one thing?"
"Certainly. If I can answer…"
"Good. If I'm being honest, I don't have a personal grudge against the
son of a bitch. He didn't do nothing to me directly, you know? Maybe you
could argue he was never much of a father, but from his perspective, that
ain't exactly a fair accusation. Odds are he doesn't even know I exist. It's
my mother who's got it in for him. The way I feel here is all stuff she drilled
into me."
He had no idea how to respond to this. Was she looking for agreement or
not? And she was the elf king's daughter?! Then who was her mother? So
many questions.
Valerian was too lost to provide any answers, but she just kept talking.
Ah.
This was a monologue. She wasn't expecting any reply.
"Then should I turn this rage back on her? On the one who stuck me
with it? Alas, she is dead, and I cannot do so. Perhaps I merely loathe my
father in her stead. But to rid myself of this grudge, my best option might be
to go after something my mother loved."
The tone had changed.
Valerian stole a look at her face.
Still, she smiled. No change there.
But—was this really a smile?
He gulped.
Fearing that one false word from him would cause the Theocracy's
doom.
She caught his tension, and her smile turned sheepish.
"…Ah, this again. I do apologize. Did I spook you? I'm not trying to
take out my grudge on the Theocracy, I promise. I mean, when everything's
said and done, I do like the place."
"D-do you? Good to hear."
He barely managed to get the words out, but his relief was palpable.
"It's just… I dunno. I wonder if I'll actually be free once I resolve the
grudge my mother branded me with. The more I talk about it, the more
awkward I feel. It's an emotional time for me."
"That's understandable."
"If we knew each other better, you could totally ask, How old are you?"
"I'm afraid the thought did not occur to me."
Valerian bowed his head, but she didn't seem concerned.
"I wonder what my mother thought."
"Mm?"
"...The weak are trampled. So be strong. There's nothing wrong with
that idea. Part of me thinks no child needs training that intense, but it's not
like I'm the only child forced to train at death's door from an early age.
There could be people out there who've trained harder than I ever have in
pursuit of power. Which means these thoughts are my weakness."
"That's…certainly difficult to say for sure, I suppose."
Did she want a yes or no? How could he respond without vexing her?
That was the one thought on his mind, and thus his answer was entirely
meaningless.
Perhaps that came through loud and clear. Her smile was genuine this
time.
"Once this is done, maybe I should go through our old records. Things
lost on me back in the day might become clear in someone else's eyes. I'm
sure…there's something left. Some clue to tell me how she felt about me…
But it's high time I got moving."
"Hee-hahhh-hee-hahhh-hee-hahhh—"
Given Decem's physical abilities, he should not be gasping for air after
this short of a run, even at top speed. But he was badly out of breath. The
cause: abject fear. And the emotional disruption was affecting his physical
performance.
As he ran, he perked up his ears, trying to detect anyone following.
Nothing.
No one following him.
Had he gotten away?
No—Decem mentally shook that off.
He couldn't get comfortable.
His pride as the strongest elf no longer mattered. He just had to get
away.
Defeat was not the end. He knew there were elves outside the forest. He
could go far from here, found a new kingdom. He had that kind of power—
should still have it.
I won't make the same mistake.
Grandchildren, great-grandchildren—he now had proof blood could
awaken not just in his children's generation. He had to be smarter this time.
Yes. This is neither failure nor my defeat. Merely a good experience. I
will not waste it. I am no fool. Only a fool repeats the same mistakes!
Exactly.
First, he should have his children mate with dark elves. Or perhaps make
children with dark elves himself?
No time right now. Need to get out via the most direct route. Or…
perhaps I should grab food, at least.
He considered this as he ran.
Decem could normally teleport to the location of the elemental linked to
him, but now that Behemoth was down, that wasn't an option. Thus, he had
to get away on his own two feet. That said, he could use magic to fly, so on
foot wasn't his only option.
Yes, Decem had magic.
Even if he grabbed no further supplies, with the magic items on his
person right now, he could manage. At least until he reached civilization
and could appropriate what he needed. With Decem's strength, no one could
possibly resist.
Certainly, he had just incurred a loss—a painful thing to admit—but
those grandchildren's strength was irregular. Achievable only because they
had his blood, and the odds of anyone that strong living at his eventual
destination were extremely low. But throwing his strength around would
attract attention. If word of Decem's presence spread, the undead his
grandchildren controlled might come after him again.
But what did they want? Were they on that floor to access the treasury?
If they're just looters, they may not care if I live or die…
Perhaps a vain hope. He found it hard to believe what they'd said—or
had their undead say—was true.
Perhaps my life was their primary goal.
He had to fear the worst. His life depended on it.
In which case, I really must go as far as I can and try not to stick out
like a sore thumb. Avoiding all use of magic. In which case…food.
Druid spells could make fruit. The treasury contained a staff that could
cast that six times every four hours. But Decem himself had not learned the
spell. And he had not learned to survive in the forest. He knew he could
defend himself against attacking beasts but as for acquiring anything edible
—and properly cooking his kills—he'd be at a total loss.
I had basic provisions in my room. Fruit and spirits. I should grab those
and then get through the woods without using magic, as fast as I can. Then
rob anyone I meet, killing them so word does not reach my grandchildren's
ears. After that, I just get as far as I can. Oh, I should bring something of
value. I've heard jewels or precious metals can be useful?
Panting, he at last made it to his chambers.
There should be several women within, but bringing them along would
attract attention, and they would slow him down. He decided to just leave
them behind.
Or perhaps just bring one or two?
He was a king, and while it displeased him to even consider it, he could
carry them without much trouble.
A woman who can prepare food might be worth bringing. And there's no
telling when I'll next meet an elf once I leave the forest. It would be a good
idea to bring someone to make children with.
The pain had left him sweaty, so he wiped his brow and caught his
breath. He did not wish to appear any less regal before the women.
There was still no sign of that undead on his heels, and he was still
looking that way as he opened the door.
"Welcome home."
A cheery woman's voice.
Decem was instantly furious.
Women always abased themselves before him. Yet, she dared speak in
such a tone? It felt like she was sneering at him for losing to his
grandchildren. Yet, when he turned to the room, his anger dissipated.
It was red.
His entire chambers had been painted a new color.
Blood.
The stench of it was far beyond what that word implied alone. How had
he not noticed from outside? The smell of his own blood must have
bamboozled his nose.
The corpses of the women he'd left here were strewn around, and a new
woman was seated on a chair in the center—she must have brought it
herself.
He did not recognize her. She wore magnificent armor, her helm in one
hand, a bizarre staff in the other. At the tip were three bloodstained blades,
each curved. It was impossible for him to imagine what purpose it had been
designed for just by looking at it.
He got the impression she was no elf. But she bore signs of the elven
race, so perhaps she was one? And those eyes—
"Nice to meet you, Dad."
She grinned.
That explained it.
"Ah. Ah. You're those children's mother."
Her expression stiffened, but then she grinned again.
"Yep, I'm…their mom! Those wounds—they beat you, huh? They're
that good? How'd they do it? Fill me in, Dad."
Decem opened his mouth and closed it again. She was trying to buy
time, and he didn't have any.
He turned on his heel to leave.
" Get back here!"
"Gah!"
A sharp pain on his legs and he hit the floor.
One of the blades from her bizarre staff had caught his feet, tripping him
—and dragged him back into the room.
Fresh wounds, more blood. But nothing as bad as the gouge the undead
had opened on his chest or the injuries to his feet as he fled.
Yet—he could not comprehend it.
They'd been a fair distance apart. Yet, this woman had been on him in a
flash, snaring his legs. Like she—his child—was far faster than he.
He felt a weight on his back.
She'd put her foot on him.
"Kahhh!"
Decem couldn't budge.
Was she really that much stronger than he was? Or was this some skill?
"That chest wound come from a blade? What's with the legs? I heard
you use an earth elemental, but where is it?"
A flurry of questions. Clearly confident.
Certainly, Decem was badly hurt. And he'd lost Behemoth. But that
didn't make him weak. His physical prowess was alive and well, and he
could instantly kill most run-of-the-mill creatures with a single blow. He'd
put all that strength into his flight, and though the pain slowed him a bit—
she should not have been able to catch up.
He was forced to admit it.
This woman had more brute strength than he did.
But that begged the question.
He had no memory of any child this powerful. He turned his head,
looking up at her.
"Wh-what do you want? Why do this to me?"
All he wanted to know. She laughed out loud.
"The strong can do whatever they want to the weak. Right?"
"Gah…hngg."
This was true.
That was how Decem had lived.
"The morals of a wild beast. But they fit a savage dwelling in these
uncivilized woods."
"D-did the women here tell you?"
"...Hahh."
She let out a long sigh, like she was venting heat.
And then the pressure on his back started to build.
"Gugh…gah…"
It forced the air from his lungs.
"Are you gonna answer my question? Or did you forget them already?
Are you going senile?"
"Garghhh…"
Decem could not endure the force she was using. His whole body
creaked, and his lips flapped, desperate for air but unable to draw any.
She clicked her tongue and eased off, but not enough that he could
scramble away. It was all he could do to gasp for air.
"What hurt you like this?"
Why…is this happening to me? Since my grandchildren…it's all gone
wrong! But why is she asking about the wounds? Does she not know what
her kids did? Do those necromancers have more than one type of
undead…? No, is this…something else?
One child, two grandchildren, all his equal—no, superior. Three all at
once. Perhaps there was some other reason for this?