Blood, fire, flesh, and bone.
Things that should never fall from the sky began to plummet. The sky, which was undoubtedly blue just moments ago, instantly turned crimson, and then was soon dyed with an ominous darkness.
An unfathomable amount of flames and corpses mingled together chaotically, blanketing the battlefield in confusion.
“Aaaaaah!”
An adrenaline-fueled dwarven warrior gripped a massive hammer in both hands and charged at a mutant.
Elves steadied their irregular breathing and drew their bowstrings taut, while orcs swung their weapons recklessly, oblivious to whether their bodies were charred by fire or dissolved by poison.
“Gyahahaa! Save me! My leg, my leggggh!”
Someone’s flesh was being torn apart.
“Next! Next, where are you? My axe craves blood! Lady Astellara has granted me power! I was born to slash through these flesh piles!”
Another soldier succumbed to madness.
“Hmph…”
Bel Artura stood slightly apart, a pipe in his mouth, watching everything unfold.
“I’m ready.”
Beside him, the Holy Maiden, Gridia, placed her hand on his back and spoke.
Her calloused hand touched his back, filling him with sacred energy.
“What a wretched two months.”
Bel’s lungs were deeply saturated with the scent of flesh and bone. The word ‘death’ had become all too familiar, while the meaning of ‘fragrance’ now escaped his memory.
Every day was a continuous battle for survival.
Ironically, this survival required sacrificing other soldiers to the frontlines.
…His left arm ached again.
Unidentifiable screams erupted between the flesh and soldiers intermingling in chaos. Even as limbs were torn and shoulders decayed, the warriors continued to wield their weapons.
Blood.
Blood was everywhere.
“Let’s end it, now.”
Bel Artura was already tired of it all.
“Alright.”
Kung!
A massive shockwave reverberated across the chaotic battlefield.
Cracks formed in the hardened ground, and mud surged through the fissures.
The soldiers, drenched in adrenaline and frenzy, momentarily ceased their cries.
The arms of those who had previously continued attacking without faltering froze.
Not just the allied forces.
Even the Grand Marshals and all marauders—including the mutants devoid of basic intelligence or rudimentary cognitive abilities—were momentarily immobilized.
Every element composing the battlefield fell silent for one man.
“The hour hand ripped away. The line that traces the world. The frozen beast.”
It was Bel Artura who shattered the silence with his voice.
He knew the man slowly rising from the shattered mud, preparing to appear.
To avoid being overwhelmed by the murderous aura this man exuded, Bel purposefully positioned himself far from the center of the battlefield.
“Separation protocols. The death of the girl. The cauldron filled with slaves.”
This foresight allowed him to act faster than the others.
“Zetsa.”
The incantation and spell name were perfectly chanted.
Whoosh!
The sharp wind blowing across the battlefield instantly ceased.
A semi-transparent barrier rose across the allied camp, the no-man’s land, and the enemy area, instantly blocking every direction.
“…Damn.”
Maltiel, who realized too late, sensed cold sweat accumulating in his palms.
“Crap.”
Michael, standing beside Maltel, stared bewildered at the barrier surrounding the area.
“…What are you doing here?”
Raguel, staring at the man standing at the center of the battlefield, couldn’t mask his shock.
“Mi, Michael, Maltiel! Inform His Dark Majesty immediately that this mad bastard has abandoned the northern front and shown up here!”
A thin blade was drawn from its sheath.
Taking several steps back, Raguel bellowed.
Completely blindsided by this unexpected variable, he hadn’t even considered using his wings or reporting directly to the Demon King.
“It doesn’t reach. No, it’s not that it doesn’t reach… I have the feeling the Demon King has vanished from his position.”
With his eyes closed in concentration, Michael could not connect with the northern front.
“…Is this the effect of this barrier? I cannot deliver any message to His Dark Majesty either.”
Maltiel smirked wryly as he gazed at the transparent barrier enveloping the battlefield.
“From this moment on, the Grand Marshal will give ten seconds to the allied forces.”
Hardly any time passed before the voice of the man at the center of the battlefield could be heard.
“Soldiers who are injured to the point where combat is difficult must withdraw from the line.”
No one on this battlefield was unfamiliar with the voice of this man.
“In addition, anyone whose skill is insufficient enough to hinder my battle must also withdraw.”
A slim, long blade, a thick leather coat, and a perfectly crease-free white garment. Fiery red hair.
“This is an order. Organize the ranks within ten seconds.”
The man who thundered into the battlefield.
The general of the allied forces, hailed as the continent’s hope.
The Sword Saint.
“Alright, all those exempted must retreat towards the rear via the trenches! The wounded and those with insufficient rank as privates should all withdraw! And anyone else who feels their skills are inadequate—follow my voice!”
Mad officers who had lost themselves in adrenaline and the heat of the battlefield came back to their senses and began issuing commands.
Injured soldiers, supported by the young and inexperienced ones, staggered toward the rear line.
“…”
Even the marauders, let alone the Grand Marshals, could not interfere as the allied forces calmly withdrew.
Because the Sword Saint stood there, blade in hand, glaring at them.
“…Ten seconds have passed. I will interpret anyone still standing with me as fully prepared for death.”
Even though his murderous intent wasn’t directed at the allied forces, inexperienced soldiers trembled uncontrollably with rapid breathing.
Nevertheless, those still standing on the battlefield all shared a profound sense of honor to simply stand by the side of this man.
“This is…the Sword Saint I’ve seen on the battlefield.”
The boy with white hair could only let out a sigh of admiration at the sight of the upheaval caused by the mere presence of this one man.
Without swinging a sword or shouting a command, this man who could silence the battlefield with his very presence was the Sword Saint.
“Charge!”
And this man who could alter history with a single word was the Sword Saint as well.
“Gyaaaah!”
“All forces! Charge that monster! Don’t bother with the others, just focus on stopping that monster!”
Raguel, stepping backward, commanded a unified charge of all the mutants and marauders under his command.
Grotesque masses of flesh gathered from all corners of the battlefield, forming a massive wave as they surged toward him.
Among the wave were low-level marauders, with pathetic wings spread wide, charging alongside the mass of flesh, while higher-ranking marauders preparing dark magic followed from behind.
“Bel, is there anything specific I should look out for that I don’t already know?”
The Sword Saint asked calmly, despite the monstrous wave standing before him. His blade gleamed as if freshly sharpened, and the veins in his forearms pulsed with the energy of suppressed fury.
“Don’t leave a single one alive.”
Bel Artura, focused on maintaining the barrier, replied without hesitation.
Upon hearing Bel’s answer, the Sword Saint tilted the blade slowly forward.
Raguel’s tidal wave of flesh was rushing toward him with the aim to destroy everything in its path.
The Sword Saint, without the slightest hesitation, widened his stance, bending his knees.
In the next moment, mud fragments burst into the air where the Sword Saint had been standing.
An inexplicable haze rose from the battlefield. It was as if space itself was warping, causing light refraction through the instantaneous compression and expansion of air.
The thunderous shockwave struck the soldiers’ ears, and a mighty gust of wind swirled around, carrying chunks of mud. Soldiers involuntarily covered their ears and closed their eyes.
The thunderous sound was so strong that even the robust orcs suffered headaches. For a moment, the boy with white hair nearly lost consciousness.
Once they slowly opened their eyes, the soldiers who regained their senses were left to witness the aftermath.
Only a green-blood-filled lake and a man holding a slender sword remained.
His shirt and outer garments were as pristine as if he had just changed into them.
