"Mo—monster!"
The soldiers trapped in the blood-woven web cried out, thrashing uselessly against the threads. From their accents Laurent could tell they were English—so they must have come investigating that burst of golden light.
He didn't kill without reason. Men sent to war were victims of circumstance; who would willingly march off to slaughter? But pity had limits. Even the pitiful carried something detestable. Poverty didn't excuse a robber. Once these men set foot on a battlefield, Laurent saw no obligation to spare them.
He raised a finger and hissed for silence.
He watched them coolly. In a way, these were Jeanne's enemies.
"Who are you?"
"M—monster…"
The soldier Laurent addressed stammered the single word. Laurent sighed, pressed a hand to his forehead, and made a weary gesture as if to say, come on, understand the hint.
"I'll ask again. Which unit are you from, and why are you here?"
His tone grew colder—an unmistakable edge.
Laurent needed information. He still knew too little about the outside world. Studying history was one thing; living in it was another. Thrown into this age, he felt blind.
"We—we're from the company led by Sir Fastolf—"
"Sir… Fastolf?"
Laurent frowned. Who the hell was that? The soldier, realizing Laurent didn't recognize the name, hurried to correct himself: "Sir John Fastolf!"
"I didn't ask for his name. And I don't know who you're talking about."
Laurent narrowed his eyes; the man clearly wasn't bright. The soldier glanced at his companion and got jabbed in the ribs—an obvious sign not to speak further. Laurent's blood web picked up the tiny motion.
"Escorting what, exactly?"
"E–escorting supplies… food."
"Supplies for the English army?"
"Y–yes!"
Faces slick with sweat, the soldiers trembled at the thought Laurent might kill them.
Laurent rubbed his chin. This was an opportunity—to infiltrate the English lines. He didn't just devour others; he could replace them. This Evil fit crooked men like a glove.
"I can let you go."
He paused, then spoke with a soft malice that made spines crawl. He extended his hand; blood tendrils slid over each soldier like a touch.
"But you'll promise not to say a word about me."
"If you utter even one word, know that I've planted eggs in you. Without my help you'll die… horribly."
It was a bluff. His blood wasn't literally laying eggs—though maybe it could act parasitic if he wanted. Still, the threat worked.
"E–eggs!?" some screamed. The rest collapsed into trembling submission.
"We—we won't tell anyone! We swear it!"
"Good. You may call me… Évigi."
He had no intention of using his real name. Given what he planned, he didn't want his true name following him.
"Understood!"
Relief surged through the lead soldier—until Laurent's next sentence froze him.
"By the way," Laurent said lightly, "what exactly are you transporting besides food?"
What should they do? Lie and die. Tell the truth and risk execution for failure. Wartime information was everything.
"There's also… some canned goods."
"Take me to your camp."
The command stunned them. H-he's coming with us?
Laurent added, with disarming cheer, "Relax. I'm here to help."
He didn't know how to make terrified soldiers trust him, then a ridiculous idea hit him—angels.
Feigning casual confidence, he let white, feathery wings unfurl behind him.
"See? Beautiful, aren't they?"
He smiled an easy smile, but to the soldiers he looked no different from Lucifer. They wanted to cry blasphemy, but if this demon was God's enemy… maybe damnation didn't seem so bad.
"I'm an angel," he said brightly. "One of those little ones flying above you, bestowing blessings—got it?"
Under his 'kind' gaze they nodded frantically.
"So hurry and take me to your commander. This angel brings prophecy—your path to victory is set. England's triumph is destined—only one final spark is missing. Naturally, that spark is my guidance!"
The lead soldier's lip twitched; cold sweat ran freely down his face.
Yes, whatever you say, great demon lord. You're the boss. Whatever you say goes.
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T/N: bonus chaps tomorrow
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