Chapter 40 - Ghost

'... He really came with just six people?'

Crow tapped the mask. It had seemed unthinkable, yet the bastard had brought only the Special Operations Unit. Crow had confirmed it personally.

Several rings of Seventh Battalion knights and soldiers surrounded the building he had entered. Black Magic Society executives were there as well.

'Even he can't pull this off.'

The scales were tipping toward the Black Magic Society.

Just then...

"You seem to have grown rusty."

A low voice came from behind. Its leisurely tone was out of place amid the noisy fortress. Crow could hardly believe those ears.

How had he gotten out of there? No, Crow struck out the word "how." This was that bastard, after all.

"Handler, I've been waiting for you."

Crow immediately bowed. A familiar pair of black shoes stopped in front of the mask.

"Your report was rather poor. Don't tell me you've grown rusty?"

There was no emotion in his voice. It was simply flat, which made it all the more terrifying. He looked ready to replace Crow as casually as he would discard a rusty tool.

"Haha, it's not that—these Black Magic Society bastards have become so secretive..."

"Have they?"

The shoes stopped right in front of Crow, cutting off all thought.

He quietly took hold of Crow's mask. Keeping the mask on before him was a pledge. Showing a bare face would mean the end.

"I-it's true! It took time to find the Seventh Battalion commander's location and the whole route there! And there's more... They're setting up something called a sanctuary!"

Crow's mask lifted slightly. The chill seeping through the gap froze the face beneath it. The cold air felt as sharp as a blade.

He tapped the mask twice.

"Did you say a sanctuary?"

"... Yes!"

"Oh, how interesting."

At that tiny show of interest, Crow desperately began explaining, like a drowning person gasping for air.

"I see. Lead the way."

He stepped back. Crow thanked him with genuine sincerity.

His behavior around the Special Operations Unit had been deceptive enough to make Crow forget this chilling presence. This was his true self.

What an idiot. Crow bit down on a lip.

"The Seventh Battalion commander is beneath the Society branch's building. There are two gateways inscribed with magic circles along the way, with thirteen Mages guarding the passage between them. All are equipped with high-quality staffs."

Crow delivered the report quickly. It was an absurd concentration of forces. Against them, Galahad was alone. Objectively speaking, this was madness, but...

"I see."

His reply was brief.

The fortress was quiet, filled with taut, silent tension. Torches moved busily in one direction.

Crow was heading the opposite way.

'He's drawn all their attention away.'

Everyone in the fortress was focused on the building he had entered to wash and the interior of the inner keep.

As a result, the Black Magic Society's building was practically empty.

Who could have expected him to move to rescue the Seventh Battalion commander the moment he arrived?

"There are two soldiers guarding the main entrance—"

Before Crow could finish, the soldiers fell.

Each had a hole through the throat, made by a precisely formed Ice Spike. Once the ice melted, it would leave no trace of itself.

Like a ghost...

"We're busy. Don't stop. Keep walking."

He whispered, without the slightest emotion in his voice despite having just killed two people.

"Yes."

Crow forced down the chilling fear and walked on.

The door opened. The revolting smell of blood tickled Crow's nose.

"... Hm? What brings an executive here at this hour—"

THUD.

The speaker collapsed without even closing his eyes. Red blood spread from the hole in his throat.

A snap of the fingers was the only sound. To kill a Mage with nothing but a finger snap, without even a staff...

'I tried to pull something on a monster like that? Fuck. I must have been insane.'

Crow bit down on a lip and kept walking.

"Oh, you've arri—"

Someone recognized Crow and opened their mouth. Then fell. Hot blood soaked Crow's feet. It repeated like a simple chore. Utterly devoid of feeling.

'... Fucking hell.'

Crow's feet felt heavy, but they had to keep moving. The moment they stopped, the monster would turn his finger on Crow.

His plan was simple: send Crow in first, then pierce the throats of whoever reacted.

The only sound was the snapping of fingers.

Crow finally stopped in front of a magically secured door.

"I-I don't have authorization for this! The bastard who used to run the Seventh Battalion branch never gave it to me!"

Crow protested desperately.

He approached. Though he was walking across the hard floor of the basement, his shoes made no sound. Like a ghost...

Without a word, he placed a hand on the door. Crow swallowed hard.

This was a security device the Black Magic Society had painstakingly developed after fleeing to the North. Surely even he couldn't—

CLICK.

The door opened before Crow could finish the thought.

Crow knew he was exceptionally good at killing Mages, thanks to his freakishly fast magic and unhesitating judgment.

But this door was another matter.

Crow knew how intricate its magical security was.

Yet he had opened it with just a few taps.

As though he knew it well...

"Aren't you going to walk?"

Startled by his question, Crow hurried on.

A cool breath brushed the back of Crow's neck.

It was just...

"Entry here is forbid..."

...like having death itself at one's back.

Crow gulped and desperately kept walking.

* * *

"Commander, the Emperor deceived us. He's making the North fight the Demons to line his own pockets. Our real enemy isn't the Demons. It's the Emperor."

The old commander of the Seventh Battalion blinked his aged eyes. One of his company commanders was spouting nonsense.

Had he gone senile and started hearing things? That seemed very likely. Surely no warrior of the North would join hands with Demons.

Of course not.

"Stupid old fool. You don't even realize you're being deceived. No wonder we never get anywhere with an old man like you in command. Always hungry, always cold... It's all your fault."

The old man could not resist answering.

"The North has always been cold, you idiot."

"No, not anymore. We have—"

The man rolled up his sleeve, revealing an unfamiliar, intricate design engraved on his forearm.

"—been chosen."

The old man narrowed his eyes.

"Your brain has rotted. To think you still can't see the truth. The Empire only sows discord between us to fatten itself. This hatred was manufactured—"

His utterly brazen delivery, his finer equipment, and his well-fed face...

The old man chuckled.

"Sorry, but the Demons most certainly are your enemies."

A leisurely voice interrupted.

Its owner wore close-fitting clothes, his hair slicked neatly back. A nobleman? His refined, immaculate appearance was out of place in the North.

"Who are you?"

"Can't you tell? An intruder."

"... An intruder?"

"Yes. I know my good looks can be misleading, but at present, I'm an intruder."

"Are you making a fool of—"

The knight scowled, rising roughly and drawing his sword. Aura surged from the blade, but its color...

"Oh, ash gray. Ash-gray aura... Is that power you received from the Demons?"

"Idiot. You came down here unarmed? I don't know what trick you used, but this is as far as you go."

"Hmm, a pity. I haven't time right now."

The man clicked his tongue and snapped his fingers.

The knight moved with incredible speed, far beyond what the company commander had been capable of.

That speed and violently surging aura looked threatening at first glance.

"How foolish."

The old man's eyes widened. The stranger had said precisely what he himself had been about to say.

"Aura is the power of conviction. That makes it difficult to awaken, and it doesn't grow easily."

The knight swung his sword savagely. The rippling ash-gray aura looked like a demon-beast opening its jaws wide.

The man faced it head-on without moving an inch.

"That is why aura can cut through a demon-beast's thick hide and shatter magic. And yet—"

He snapped his fingers.

The knight's sword was right before his throat, but he did not so much as blink. Instead, he looked at the blade and clicked his tongue.

"You can't even pierce a simple barrier like this."

The sword, cloaked in ash-gray aura, had stopped against a translucent wall. The knight's face turned ashen.

He struggled desperately, but the sword would not move, as though embedded in place.

Aura that could not cut through magic...

Only then did he seem to realize something was wrong. Panic spread across his face.

"To stain your noble conviction yourself... You've robbed it of its light."

The knight tilted. His chest split horizontally, and his body fell in two, pitifully easily.

The old man murmured in admiration. The stranger was right. Aura was the power of conviction. That was why it could cut anything.

But that idiot had mixed something foreign into his conviction.

What mattered was not its size, but its roots.

Still, there was no denying that he had become stronger in the short term.

And this man had dispatched him in a single move...

"Impressive."

"Clever knights aren't particularly difficult opponents."

"Clever knights... You're right about that."

The old man nodded.

A knight needed to be foolish.

'Because foolish convictions are the firmest of all.'

Then the man placed his hand on the iron bars. The thick bars crumbled without a sound.

"I've come to rescue you. Let's go."

He took the canteen from his waist and put it to his lips. A familiar smell of blood spread through the air. It was not human.

"Are you drinking Demon blood?"

"It tastes surprisingly good."

The old man cackled at his reply. Demon blood tasted good? What sort of madman was this?

"He never stood a chance against you. How could someone borrowing a Demon's power defeat a hunter who devours Demons?"

The old man coughed harshly. A Mage who drank Demon blood... One really did see everything if one lived long enough.

The man stood before him. His clothes were immaculate and his hair neatly slicked back, but his face was full of fatigue.

The old man felt a flicker of admiration. Those eyes held not a trace of hesitation. Only someone who believed in himself could have such eyes.

Like the Grand Duke...

'No, perhaps a little different.'

"Aren't you getting up?"

The man looked at him as he asked.

All his restraints had been undone before he knew it, but his body still felt heavy.

He thought of what he would have to do once he left. He would have to kill every last one of those who had conspired with the Demons. Men who had been with him for many years.

He had grown too old for such work.

But what choice did he have?

This, too, was his fault.

The old man hauled his stiff body upright.

"Where is your weapon?"

At the question, the old man cackled and took hold of the staff propped in the corner.

"Nothing beats a walking stick for an old man."

For the first time in a long while, the staff settled snugly into his grip.

* * *

BANG! BANG!

Someone pounded roughly on the door.

When Tom opened it, hostile stares poured in.

"The deputy commander and all the company commanders are assembled and waiting. How long do you intend to keep them?"

A fierce-looking knight demanded an answer. A long line of soldiers stood behind him.

Their menacing presence made Tom's back damp. Sweat poured from his palms. He forced a smile.

"Ahaha, our commander is extremely thorough about washing, you see. He considers it proper etiquette. The Seventh Battalion has such a formidable reputation that I believe he's taking even greater care to show his respect."

The compliment softened the knight's expression slightly.

"Ahem. Typical imperial fussiness. Tell him to finish quickly."

"Yes, yes, of course."

Tom bowed obsequiously and closed the door.

Only then did he take a full breath. His back and hands were drenched in sweat. He felt as though a chunk of his lifespan had been shaved away.

"I can't hold them off much longer," he told the others.

He had already sent them away several times. With each visit, their knocking grew rougher.

"No choice, then."

Gilberton drew his sword.

"When the door opens, I'll take the knight's head off. Damian rushes through the gap, and Gwen throws fire."

"Explosive Fireball?"

"Yes, fire. Our rookie takes the rear."

The rookie nodded.

Gilberton's orders were clear. Watching everyone nod, Tom was horrified.

"You're saying we're going to break through them?"

There were dozens of soldiers outside alone, with crossbows among them. How were they supposed to break through that?

Just then...

BANG! BANG! BANG!

The door shook as though it would break apart.

Gilberton gestured. Adrianna gripped her sword hilt. They looked ready to fight if necessary.

"What are you doing in there? Get out here now!"

Apparently at the end of his patience, the knight pounded harder than before. The door shook as though it might splinter at any moment.

"I'll try to stop them."

Tom hurried to the door.

Gripping the handle, he desperately searched for an idea. What would Commander Galahad do?

"We came here under His Highness the Grand Duke's orders! Forcing this door open is an act of rebellion against His Highness!"

The extreme accusation briefly stopped the pounding.

But only briefly.

"Cut the bullshit and open the door! How dare you throw the Grand Duke's name around?!"

It hadn't worked.

Gilberton gestured, and everyone finished preparing.

They really intend to fight. Tom screamed inwardly.

"Open up! We're not waiting any longer!"

BANG!

A small section of the door splintered. Tom bit his lip.

They had claimed to be bathing, so he had to show them proof.

"Everyone, please look away."

At Tom's request, they all turned their heads.

Without hesitation, Tom stripped off his armor. And everything else. Completely bare.

He gave the handle a slight pull. The shaking door flew open.

Countless eyes fixed on him at once. Tom let out an entirely genuine scream.

The fuming knight faltered at the sight of his stark-naked body.

"Didn't we tell you we were washing?!"

"Ahem. Finish getting ready. We can't wait any longer. Orders from above."

The knight stepped back.

Tom realized this was the last reprieve.

Quickly putting his armor back on, he adjusted his shield and blocked the door. Gilberton stood beside him. Damian prepared to spring out.

"You bastards!"

The knight forced his way inside. Tom struggled desperately to hold him back, but he was no match for a knight. A kick sent him rolling across the floor. Gilberton drew a breath.

Just as violence was about to erupt...

"The Seventh Battalion certainly is impatient."

A leisurely voice rang out. Every head turned at once.

Galahad was casually sweeping back his hair. With his tidy clothes and clean face, he looked for all the world like a man who had just finished bathing.

Even Tom was confused.

The knight took a step back, apparently flustered.

"Lead the way."

There was not a single bead of sweat on Galahad's forehead as he spoke.

* * *

Armed men and figures in black hoods sat around the banquet hall.

The table was laden with uncooked meat and alcohol. They tore into meat that dripped with blood.

"Just how long must we wait?"

Devillian, an executive of the Black Magic Society, narrowed his eyes.

His voice held irritation, not anxiety.

Now that his stomach was getting full, he had begun to remember their original purpose.

"Apparently, he's bathing to make himself presentable before coming."

A mocking voice answered from beside him.

"Bathing?"

Laughter broke out around the room.

"Could he be up to something else?"

Someone raised the question.

A brief silence followed, then laughter erupted. The speaker was the first to laugh.

They had stationed over a hundred troops around him alone. Had anything unusual happened, a report would have arrived long ago.

Even if he somehow slipped through them...

"What could he possibly do? This is already our domain."

Devillian chuckled.

Whatever the man did, the outcome was decided. It would be nothing more than a futile struggle.

That was why they were dining at their leisure instead of hurrying him along.

"The sanctuary will open soon."

Exclamations rose around the room at Devillian's announcement.

"We will usher in a new era."

The deputy commander took up the declaration, his voice brimming with confidence. Everyone nodded.

Red eyes gleamed sinisterly in the darkness.

'We're almost there. The Society is finally stepping onto the stage.'

Devillian murmured under his breath.

Everything was perfect.

They had summoned Galahad, who was muddying the waters in the North, to the Seventh Battalion.

They would kill him and twist relations between the North and the Empire.

That would open the door...

'And usher in the age of black magic.'

They would hide no longer.

"Still, isn't he taking too long? I don't see the executive in the crow mask either."

Another executive muttered uneasily. He was always voicing doubts.

Tsk. What a way to ruin the mood.

"What does that matter when the sanctuary is opening?"

Devillian spoke with complete conviction.

"Adrianna? It wouldn't matter if she came in person. The sanctuary is a graveyard for those who haven't been chosen. Aren't we surrounded by chosen knights? Adrianna wouldn't be enough!"

Everyone laughed at Devillian's words. "Shh!" He raised an index finger to his lips. They waited for what he would say next.

"He'd have to bring someone like the Grand Duke!"

The Grand Duke!

The laughter grew louder still.

Then the doors burst open.

A handsome, impeccably groomed nobleman who looked as though he belonged in the capital entered.

"Oh, you're all here. Sorry I'm late. Things took longer than I expected."

Hostile stares poured down on him.

He met each one in turn, meticulously, as though checking something.

"So it was a banquet after all."

With that cryptic remark, he headed for an empty seat.

The focus of the gathering shifted to him in an instant.

It felt as though he were the banquet's guest of honor.

"Hmm, raw meat. What barbaric tastes."

Clicking his tongue, he poured the alcohol from his glass onto the floor. Then he took out a canteen and poured its contents into the glass.

Red liquid filled it to the brim. The smell was terribly familiar: a bloody, foul, accursed stench.

Demon blood.

He swirled the glass, spreading the smell through the air.

The knights on either side recoiled in horror. The others grimaced as well.

He leisurely raised the glass to his lips. Savoring it like fine liquor, he drained it.

'And he calls us barbaric?'

Setting down the glass, he wiped his mouth with a cloth.

"Now, since it's getting late, let's get straight to business."

Business? He spoke with the confidence of someone who had sought them out himself.

'What the—'

Devillian narrowed his eyes, seized by a peculiar sense of displeasure.

Then the man picked up a knife and fork.

He looked exactly as though he were preparing to eat.

And then...

"So, where's the high-ranking Demon?"

His lips curled upward, as though he were waiting for a gourmet dish.

A heavy silence settled over the banquet hall.