The sun beat down on the battlefield as killing intent swirled from all directions, accompanied by hot breath, hot blood, and hot body heat.
"Clang!!"
I deflect the axe plunging straight toward my face with the back of my blade. In one fluid motion, I raise my arm and swing. With a sharp sound, the enemy's neck is deeply slashed.
Though the creature gushes blood from what looks like newly formed gills, it still manages to block Ivan's path with a final swing of its arm.
Immediately after, another thick forearm comes crashing down—muscular limbs thicker than most human thighs.
My tense nerves react instantly. I can perceive even the smallest disturbances in the air as the wind splits and scatters.
"Clang! Clash!"
At this point, every moment of battle is like an acrobatic performance. The moment I allow even one clean hit, my combat effectiveness will drastically decrease.
People die when struck by blades. When muscles tear, movement becomes impossible; when ligaments rip, even lifting an arm becomes difficult.
And blades are always, at any moment, stronger than human flesh.
However.
"Hrrgh!!"
"Slash."
The longsword begins to dance again. The technique of blocking certain senses to amplify others is difficult to use right now. I need to utilize all my senses fully.
My sense of smell tracks the beasts' scent, my hearing catches the noise of approaching weapons, my sense of touch traces the eddies of the breeze like antennae, and my vision observes the constantly changing battlefield.
A flood of information invades my head. Fighting against multiple opponents is always like this.
It's exhausting. Mental fatigue is harder to endure than physical. But still, not yet.
"Clash! Clang!"
Deflect the axe, withdraw my body, slice through an approaching enemy's forearm, withdraw again, dodge the trajectory of a swinging war hammer, and step aside.
"Kruk?!"
I leap over it, using the creature's shoulder as a stepping stone, and stab twice with my dagger along the muscle fibers inside its neck. After precisely cutting the artery, I pull away. Even without finishing it off, the creature is already dead.
"Clang—!!"
My dagger breaks. It's fine. I still have two more.
"Crack! Clang!"
I throw the notched longsword, hitting one creature in the back of the knee, then dash forward like an arrow. The flailing enemy's movements appear slow to me.
I grab a falling axe and briefly gauge its weight. 11kg. With its terrible center of gravity, it's practically a lump of iron—too unwieldy for a human to handle properly.
Perfect.
When slaughtering cattle, one should use a butcher's knife.
Ivan begins swinging the axe. Unlike swordsmanship, an axe follows different principles. Instead of deflecting and penetrating, it's about smashing and crushing.
I walk forward.
"Huff... huff..."
I carve a path. Not looking back at the dead ones, the dying ones, or the critically wounded ones. Just forward.
Creating a path in the middle of enemy territory could be considered a scout's duty. So, forward.
Ignoring unnecessary information like calories depleted through intense activity, the heat radiating from my body, and the sun slowly setting overhead, I press forward.
Muscles crying out with lactic acid, lungs heaving for more oxygen, and the headache from prolonged tension pushing against my mind.
Ignoring such useless information, I move forward again.
Killing enemies, creating a path.
That was my role. My steps always facing forward.
"Huff... huff..."
Mimicking Einar's fighting style, imitating Maximillian's movements, copying Gilbert's stance.
Piecing together fragments of past training like a mosaic, fitting them into the situation like puzzle pieces.
"The Bargadal warband has disappeared."
"Yes, Your Excellency."
"Where? What was the last location they were confirmed?"
"Bertomang, sir."
"So it's been like that since the first day! Are you out of your mind? Reporting such critical information only now?!"
Guillaume threw his helmet as he shouted. The head servant bowed deeply and retreated.
No matter how urgent the dispatch, not all situations can be reported in real-time. Naturally, there could be a day or two of discrepancy.
But it's been four days. For four days, all territories except Bertomang have remained intact. They've even started gathering soldiers, claiming they would handle the situation themselves.
"There's no way they would have a central figure willing to join hands."
Mere barons mobilizing private armies and even cooperating to build up military forces? Any unauthorized military action could be treated as treason.
Guillaume trembled, grabbing the back of his neck, at the news that they were willingly gathering troops and preparing regional defenses despite such risks.
For him and the other two counts, they had started their plan prepared to be arrested for treason if they failed. There might be flaws, but the overall plan wouldn't falter.
They had both the confidence and the circumstances. If not now, they wouldn't even be able to attempt it.
But what about those others? Mere country nobles barely worthy of the title, more like local strongmen than true aristocrats. What great honor could they possibly seek to risk treason charges by joining hands?
Guillaume gritted his teeth and shouted.
"Head for Bertomang!"
The plan to tour the destroyed neighboring territories and then opportunely subjugate the demons had already fallen apart. Though the reason the demons suddenly settled in Bertomang remained unknown, the original operation had collapsed upon execution.
An excellent tactical commander must be able to pursue the next plan even in such situations.
'If it comes to this, I'll have to use treason as leverage to persuade them.'
It's a fact that they gathered troops and acted rashly. If he moves the House of Nobles with this, he could easily overthrow mere barons.
Using that as leverage, what could they possibly do?
"Ah, right. How many have gathered?"
"At least two thousand infantry, about three hundred cavalry, and over twenty knights."
"Is that all?"
"When last confirmed, there appeared to be movements to gather throughout the neighboring territories, but that's the estimated force gathered so far."
"Hmph."
During farming season, that level of troops would mean scraping together virtually all the military power of the territories. And they did this not just in one or two territories, but even in areas not directly on the front lines?
This would be difficult without a royal decree.
Guillaume turned his horse, grinding his teeth in suspicion. His orders were transmitted to the camp, and soon the soldiers began marching behind him.
"You, name."
A sound like grinding iron was heard. It was clearly human speech.
With their wide, thick tongues and oral structure, human language is too delicate and complex for these creatures to express.
Therefore, most Taurus couldn't use language. At least, the ones he had encountered communicated in their own native tongue.
So Ivan couldn't answer when he first heard the words. Instead, he swung his axe.
"Crunch!"
Another Taurus that had been gasping for breath lost its head and rolled on the ground. Ivan, who had been mechanically slaughtering the writhing creatures, looked up at the voice that came again.
"You, name."
It was one with line-of-fire detection. The strongest and most troublesome one. The one he had managed to successfully plant a blade into.
Though difficult to assess precisely, even by the standards of that era, it wasn't a common specimen. Beyond the level of a centurion, perhaps even an "adjutant" class.
Ivan poured a healing potion over the long gash stretching from his chest to his forearm as he looked at the creature.
"Name."
Despite having its limbs dismembered and bleeding profusely, the creature stared at him with a grin. Its blood-red eyes glared directly at Ivan.
As the creature's mouth flapped open to speak again, Ivan approached with his axe and said:
"Ivan Petrovich Yeremov."
"Ivan. Remembered."
The creature nodded and curled back its lips. Yellow teeth caked with blood became visible. It was smiling in its own way.
The axe blade rose high into the sky, straight up, blocking the morning sun that had already risen.
Receiving that shadow on its face, the creature mumbled:
"My, name."
"Don't care."
"Crunch."
The still-smiling face fell and rolled on the ground.
"Huff..."
Ivan sat down roughly and rummaged through his belongings. His last remaining energy bar was soaked in blood. Not exactly hygienic, but unless he wanted to tear into demon flesh, he had no choice.
Taurus meat tastes disgustingly bad anyway. Ivan wiped the energy bar roughly and chewed it down.
He was exhausted.
But still.
"I was ten times better than you, Gilbert."
From the ravine to this place, this forest now had more dead Taurus bodies than trees.
"We're not too late, are we?"
"We couldn't have prepared any faster."
Serte smiled wryly at Noir, who had been anxious for days. They had done their best over the past three days.
Troops gathered so urgently they could barely sleep, lords collected under the name of Archduke Etakrih in what amounted to intimidation.
With no supply lines to consider, combat operations would last only a few days at most. After that, the army would naturally disperse, desert, or disappear.
But that was fortunate in a way. If an army of this size were maintained for a long time, it would truly look like an undeniable plot of rebellion.
"Fire! I see fire!!"
"This direction... it's completely unrelated to the main road."
"Let's check it out. We might learn where the battle took place."
"All troops, prepare for combat!!"
Black smoke was rising beyond the forest. Since Bertomang had been completely devoured by demons, it certainly wasn't leisurely farmers tending their fields.
Therefore, that fire was most likely from demons. Probably some kind of encampment.
So that man really did hold them in this forest for five days. All by himself.
Baron Noir led his troops with quiet amazement. The soldiers, peasant farmers clutching old spears, struggled to follow.
"Signs of battle!"
"Must have been an intense fight...!"
After walking for about an hour, they found the first corpse. It was a Taurus body already beginning to decompose. The severely damaged state, blood splattered everywhere like paint, and the shattered trees around indicated the severity of the battle.
About five of them. Took them down in one place.
It meant facing five Taurus head-on without being mounted on horseback.
"The path continues!"
A knight at the vanguard shouted. A path wide enough for two thousand infantry to pass through with difficulty had been created.
Through the collapsed forest, the soldiers clutched their spears tightly with terrified faces as they trudged forward.
Seeing the corpses of dead demons and this path clearly made by demons, they couldn't help but feel fear. To farmers, Taurus were nothing short of nightmares.
The deep forest absorbed the afternoon sunlight, creating shadows. Despite the wide path, the sides of the forest were shrouded in darkness, making it seem like demons could jump out at any moment.
After continuing for quite some time, comforting the frightened farmers, the vanguard shouted that they had discovered more bodies.
"Battle here too..."
"Judging by the traces, this looks more like tracking."
"Did he use the forest terrain to engage them little by little, buying time? For five whole days? Chilling."
Serte swallowed hard as he looked at the bodies. Shattered Taurus corpses were scattered everywhere.
The vanguard announced another discovery of bodies just 10 minutes further ahead.
Five minutes later, they reported more bodies, following even larger battle traces than before.
Again, again, and again.
By now, no one in the party spoke. Even the vanguard stopped reporting.
"What... is this..."
They were in a forest. But a forest made of things other than trees.
A path where everywhere they looked, they saw only the remains of dead Taurus.
The afternoon sun tilted toward the west.
"One person... accomplished this...?"
A path had been carved. Narrow, precarious, and reeking of blood.
A path paved with entrails, muscles, flesh, and blood, with countless crows pecking at the scattered corpses.
At the end of the slimy path paved with Taurus corpses, a small campfire was burning down.
"Lord."
Serte muttered, crossing himself. His hand unconsciously moved to his sword hilt, tendons twitching.
"A sea of blood and mountains of corpses..."
"I'm not quite at that level to claim such a title."
That was Einar's nickname, after all.
Ivan, who had been sitting in front of the campfire, slowly rose to his feet.