Use it as you will.
Alter left behind only those words before launching a preemptive strike at Maltiel. His staff, glowing with a bright white light, made no pause for the boy to regain his senses.
The leaves burst into flames, and a hot gust of wind brushed past the boy’s cheeks. Lightning shot upward into the sky, and an indescribable pressure descended upon the ranks.
“Rex, the Artifact!”
As if he’d been waiting for that command, Rex exhaled deeply, brought his hands to his chest, and instantly fine particles streamed out to form a large horn.
“Everyone, strike in unison with the horn’s sound! The opponent is the Grand Marshal—don’t let this chance slip!”
Rex lacked confidence. He wasn’t sure if this plan was the right one.
But before he could voice such doubts, the trees covering the mountainside erupted into cries. Leaves decorating the slope floated into the air, and next to Alter, the Grand Marshal descended.
Then the sound of the horn echoed through the mountain.
A large crack began to form in the ground beneath Maltiel’s and Alter’s feet.
From the inky-black cracks, white bones rose. Crawling through the cracks, they quickly climbed up Maltiel’s legs and tightly coiled around his dark body.
“It was a decoy.”
Ignoring the white hands climbing his body, Maltiel stretched out his arms; Alter’s head was right in front of him. With just a bit more effort, he could slay this Tier 9 mage.
Mages were always significant variables on the battlefield. Even if his entire body would be bound by bones in a second, Maltiel resolved to eradicate the mage in front of him.
‘No need to dwell on analyzing the situation. Clearing away this Tier 9 mage takes priority.’
Rustle—
In the next moment, Alter’s robe flared tightly, and his body fell backward. It was one of the soldiers, rushing in tune with the horn’s sound, who had pulled the old man back. Though the gesture was rough and without any care, it saved the old man’s head from being taken.
Maltiel’s fist, swathed in black light, tore through the air. As the black light grazed Alter’s hair, it instantly severed and disappeared.
“Tch.”
In the next instant, Maltiel’s body froze.
The bones that had sprouted beneath his feet had tightly bound him like shackles.
Maltiel’s eyes darted down to assess the sudden void and the identity of the bones rising beneath his feet.
Between those cracks, countless skulls were piled up, staring at Maltiel with a chilling coldness.
‘Magic? No, I feel mana, but this isn’t the sensation of magic. Is it an Artifact?’
[The Horn That Calls Them]
Blown forcefully by Rex, the horn had the power to create cracks wherever the user desired, summoning skeletal undead.
These undead could separate and reassemble bones to transform into more efficient forms of warriors, or into bone powder or solid bone lumps, binding an opponent’s hands or feet when necessary.
Depending on the user’s creativity and skill, they could overwhelm enemies with a skeleton army or spread bone dust like fog to obstruct vision.
The Artifact’s potential was virtually limitless, almost perfect with no apparent drawbacks.
However, Maltiel knew little of its true nature.
‘…Many Artifacts have erratic effects and reactions. It’s meaningless to try and analyze something that can’t be understood.’
Maltiel decided to ignore the skeletons climbing up from beneath him. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t grasp the identity or power of this Artifact he was encountering for the first time.
There were things one could deduce through reason and things one could never understand, no matter the effort.
Maltiel clearly distinguished between the two.
“Uuaaaah!”
Soldiers swung axes and swords at Maltiel. Fear pulled at their feet, but none of them hesitated or froze in place.
“Pathetic.”
Crack…!
The white bones binding Maltiel began to crack. The undead that had briefly restricted the Grand Marshal’s movements could do no more than that.
In the next moment, the bones tightly gripping Maltiel shattered, scattering bone dust that floated around him like fine particles. Maltiel’s wings contracted.
It wouldn’t take even a second for Maltiel to massacre the soldiers charging at him with their lives.
“Hey.”
Then.
Piercing through the soldiers’ cries of terror and the sound of bones shattering, a boy’s voice rang out.
‘…’
Maltiel’s thought process paused momentarily.
He let the force in his wings relax and slowly turned his head toward the source of the voice.
At the end of his gaze stood a boy with white hair.
“…!”
A shiver spread over his dark body.
“Unbelievable mistake! Does only Bel Artura have the ability to think?!”
Without realizing it, Maltiel blurted out his thoughts instinctively.
A large grin spread across Maltiel’s face, laden with malice and lewdness, causing the boy to break out in cold sweat and become paralyzed with fear.
Crack!
As Maltiel grinned at the boy in a chilling manner, soldiers’ axes and sword blades pierced and sank into his skin. Steel clashed, red sparks flew from various parts of the Grand Marshal’s body, and soon black blood spewed from the wounds.
But that was all.
None of the soldiers managed to reach Maltiel’s core.
“Fools.”
“…All forces, retreat!”
The boy with white hair urgently signaled the soldiers to fall back. The soldiers, drenched in cold sweat, quickly looped Alter around their waists and dashed into the forest for cover. Amidst the chaos, the Grand Marshal, standing at the epicenter of fear, slowly advanced toward the boy.
No matter what—his safety, the troublesome high-tier mage, or the strange bones that suddenly sprouted from the ground—none mattered compared to the boy’s life in front of him.
‘A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.’
Maltiel had fled from Valleland to survive. Anyone could see that staying there would only lead to a more pitiful end.
There was Gridia, Arthur, and most importantly, the Sword Saint. A battle with the boy there would result in nothing but death, interrupted by those three.
But what about now?
The most problematic Sword Saint was chasing Michael. Gridia and Arthur were bound to Valleland.
The boy was as defenseless as could be.
Maltiel made his decision.
“I admit it, I’ve lost.”
He had decided to give up on fleeing.
Losing four Grand Marshals in a day was a significant blow. It was possible that today’s defeat could cause the Marauders to lose the momentum needed to fight against the allied forces.
Across countless battlefields, marauders who couldn’t move would be eliminated by the allied army. With ease, the allied forces would rack up victories.
Even if he didn’t stake his life, today was set to be an important day for the allied forces. That fact remained unchanged.
Two Grand Marshals were already dead, and Michael’s death by the Sword Saint’s blade was almost a foregone conclusion.
Even if Maltiel survived, losing three Grand Marshals made it practically impossible to maintain the current frontlines spread across the entire continent. It wouldn’t take long for most of the fronts to be resolved, and the scattered allied forces would gather into one place.
With more than 40% of their forces lost, it was almost certain that the Marauders would be placed on the defensive sooner rather than later.
The allied forces would launch an offensive to cut off the Marauders’ lifelines, and the balance of power, unchanged for 30 years, would finally be reversed.
Maltiel couldn’t overturn this tide alone. The winds of change had already begun to blow.
“Still, there’s always something that can be done.”
Groooaaar…!
Behind Maltiel, a massive crack opened up, and a giant hand emerged.
A skeletal giant so large that even Rex the Orc could swallow it with one bite revealed itself behind Maltiel. The titan stretched out its huge hand toward the Marauder in front of it.
Crash!
The next moment, with a tremendous shockwave, it was shattered into pieces.
Maltiel hadn’t used any special magic. He had merely contracted and then forcefully expanded his wings.
“You damned…”
The boy couldn’t help but close his eyes against the monumental shockwave Maltiel had created.
“Still not satisfied? With three Grand Marshals, it would’ve been a historic victory… who the hell sent you here?”
“…Bolt!”
The staff of Alter, who had hidden himself among the soldiers within the shadow of the trees, once again emitted light.
Chaos of lightning scattered through the air, piercing through Maltiel’s skull.
Black blood gushed like a fountain, then smoked as it touched the residual lightning.
Crisp crackles.
Still, Maltiel’s steps did not falter. With every step, the leaves underfoot crumbled like they were rotting. The numerous fallen leaves quickly turned to powder, swirling beneath his feet.
Maltiel had already replaced his head with new bones and flesh.
His dark face was still filled with a disturbing smile.
“The situation’s advantageous! We have both the Artifact and Alter! Soldiers, don’t be afraid! Hesitation means instant death!”
The boy remained unfazed and continued to rally the soldiers.
“Admittedly, you do have a favorable situation.”
Lightning again erupted among the shadows of the trees. This time, Maltiel shielded his body by unfolding his wings. The blackened wings clashed with the lightning, exploding into red flames.
Maltiel cut away the burning part of his wing with his claw in one swift motion. A new wing emerged in mere moments.
Ahead of the boy, the Orc wielding the horn and an axe burst forward. The resolute warrior stood ready to protect the mage with his life.
“There are too many variables unfavorable to me on this battlefield.”
Stopping his advance, Maltiel looked at the Orc with a replacement arm.
The red-skinned Orc was nothing special. His large axe and mechanical arm were somewhat impressive, but that was it. For someone guarding the boy, he was excessively ordinary.
But the horn he held felt… strange.
‘An Artifact.’
Maltiel had no choice but to halt his steps. He couldn’t predict what power this Artifact might possess.
“A high-tier mage of the Tier 9 circle, an unknown Artifact, soldiers with decent skills… and you, Bin.”
His voice echoed eerily.
“Seems like it’s better to clean up this mess properly.”
For the first time, the ever-smirking monster donned a serious and heavy expression.
Like clasping his hands in prayer, the monster pressed his pitch-black palms together, then carefully brought them under his chin.
An oppressive silence descended upon the battlefield.
The burning leaves, the passing wind, even the sun gazing down from above—all of them seemed to have lost their voices, doing nothing but witness the Grand Marshal’s presence.
“…Crazy bastard.”
The boy with white hair emitted a low sigh, as if foreseeing what was about to happen.
“All forces, flee from this place!”
Soon, an urgent cry reverberated through the forest, carried by the burning fallen leaves and branches.
“Huff…”
Amidst that shout, Maltiel closed his eyes, exhaled deeply, and focused silently on the flow of mana within his body.
“Ripped wounds. Incisors lost at the back of the neck. Broken canines.”
The incantation resonated through the air from his black tongue. Not long after, something akin to pure darkness started seeping from between Maltiel’s hands pressed under his chin.
“Annihilation.”
Magic selects its master by one criterion alone—talent.
Outstanding, exceptional talent. Magic simply blesses that.
The magic chose its course.
