Thud.
Ghislain collapsed to the ground, blood continuing to flow from his mouth, nose, and ears.
The sword, imbued with his will and capable of slicing through the world itself, had exacted a heavy toll. The recoil was immense, and his mental strength was nearly depleted.
Yet, what mattered most was that he had finally ascended to a new realm.
Though his mana reserves fell short of what they had been in his past life, his enlightenment had reached an even higher peak.
Ghislain looked at Idun's corpse with a wistful gaze.
"Idun," he murmured.
The lifeless body gave no reply. Always brimming with confidence and arrogance, Idun now lay as a cold, silent corpse.
Ghislain exhaled softly and muttered, "At last, I've caught you."
As one of the continent's Seven Strongest, Idun had been an extraordinarily formidable opponent.
Just as Ghislain had grown stronger, so had Idun. For all his vanity, Idun had been rigorous in his discipline.
His love for himself drove him to exceptional self-management.
But now, one of the lingering threads of his past life's grudges had been severed. The man who had once taken his head was no more.
Naturally, Ghislain felt a weight lift from his heart.
"Whew… But I couldn't tear you apart."
He had no interest in desecrating the corpse. Idun had been too skilled an opponent to deserve such treatment.
Even in his final moments, Idun had nearly mimicked his highest echelon of swordsmanship. Killing him in the same manner as he had been killed in his past life would have to suffice.
"Lord!"
"Commander!"
"Hooray! His Grace has won!"
Cheers erupted as the knights and soldiers of the Fenris forces ran toward him, shouting in joy.
The overwhelming opponent had been defeated, and their leader had emerged victorious.
None of them could comprehend how the final exchange had unfolded. To them, Ghislain had swung his sword so slowly that it seemed the enemy willingly allowed himself to be struck.
Even the knights rationalized it as a result of mutual exhaustion.
"Who cares how it happened! We won!"
Gordon shouted exuberantly, grinning from ear to ear.
Victory was all that mattered. Ghislain's strength was the cornerstone that upheld Fenris.
The knights hurriedly brought out potions and poured them over Ghislain. By now, this had become a familiar ritual.
"Sploosh, sploosh!"
They unceremoniously drenched his face with the potions. Too weak to resist, Ghislain let them do as they pleased.
Vanessa, clutching her own injuries, ran toward him and shouted, "My lord! Are you alright? You mustn't lose consciousness! Focus on my voice. A chicken is four times as numerous as ducks, ducks are nine fewer than pigs—"
"…Stop. Not that," Ghislain interjected wearily.
He had no desire to solve her bizarre riddles right now.
Struggling to his feet, he surveyed the gathered crowd and said, "Leave the battlefield cleanup. We have to move immediately."
Vanessa tried to dissuade him.
"My lord, you need to rest and receive treatment first."
Indeed, Ghislain's condition was dire. Though the potions had healed his external wounds, traces of Idun's mana lingered in his body, wreaking havoc.
He shook his head.
"Count Bipenbelt will move quickly. We'll recover on the way."
Unable to overcome his stubbornness, the knights reluctantly performed a brief reorganization before mounting their horses.
Ghislain, his voice heavy with fatigue and his eyes half-closed, muttered as they rode off,
"Let's go. We're almost there."
There was no need to worry about the other front. Once they dealt with Bipenbelt's forces, the war would reach its conclusion.
Thud, thud, thud!
The Fenris forces rode with renewed urgency.
Though the battlefield held spoils aplenty, they abandoned them all in their haste.
The artists who had been trailing the Artrode army to document the war fled long ago, spooked by the chaos.
All they took with them was a single prize: the fine white steed that had belonged to Idun.
***
Meanwhile, Count Bipenbelt, marching swiftly, frowned at the messenger's report.
"We've lost contact?"
"Yes, my lord. There's no trace of them, and we cannot determine their location."
The Count halted his army.
He had planned to rendezvous with the forces led by his spy, but now there was no communication at all. There could only be one explanation for such silence.
"They must have been discovered."
The spy's identity had likely been exposed, and worse, they had already been dealt with.
Thinking deeply, the Count eventually nodded.
"It seems the divided forces moved faster than expected."
No doubt the Ninth and Tenth corps had been taken care of by the Fenris forces. That was why he was confident enough to pursue Fenris's main army.
It appeared that the Fenris troops, having dealt with the Ninth and Tenth, had swiftly moved on to eliminate the spy's forces as well.
"Tsk, what a shame."
If the spy's army had survived, they could have been used as fodder to weaken Fenris's forces.
Still, Count Bipenbelt was confident.
"Either Duke Fenris or Prince of Turian will soon fall."
The Second and Fourth corps were advancing together. No matter how strong their leaders were, they couldn't withstand the combined assault of two entire corps.
Soon, good news would surely reach him.
As for the Third corps? All they needed to do was hold out and buy time.
"Let's move. We've no time to lament."
Though the spy's forces were expendable, the First corps alone was more than enough to defeat the weakened Fenris army.
Thud, thud, thud!
The First corps pushed onward with remarkable speed.
Though their force numbered 30,000—a size that required considerable logistics—they managed to maintain an impressive pace.
That capability was precisely why Count Bipenbelt had opted for a swift, decisive maneuver.
At this rate, they would arrive at their destination right on schedule—barring any unforeseen complications.
"Stop immediately!"
The cry came from the corps's Sixth Circle mage.
Before anyone could question him, he released his mana in a burst. Other mages followed suit, radiating power.
Count Bipenbelt quickly issued an order.
"Halt! Everyone, stop!"
Neigh!
The army came to an abrupt halt, their formation thrown into disarray.
The mages ignored the commotion, pouring their energy into detection spells.
Ahead, the ground trembled slightly, and weak flames burst forth.
Fwoosh!
The flames were unimpressive, far from their intended power.
But similar eruptions occurred in multiple locations.
Count Bipenbelt narrowed his eyes and asked, "What's happening?"
The mage clicked his tongue and replied, "It's a trap. We've detected significant mana beneath the ground. It seems they've used runestones to set up these traps."
"Then…"
The mage's gaze sharpened as he scanned the surroundings.
"Yes, there's a mage nearby. Whoever activated these traps is still in the vicinity."
"Search the area! Find out if there are more traps!"
The mages and soldiers scoured the terrain. The ground was littered with countless runestones, laid out like pebbles.
Time was precious, yet they found themselves delayed by this nuisance.
Count Bipenbelt ground his teeth.
"They've gone all out."
Only the Fenris forces would use runestones so liberally.
The culprit was obvious.
"It's that Jerome fellow."
The mage's interference was blatant and relentless, his sabotage a thorn in the Count's side.
Sure enough, it wasn't long before the mage was spotted.
"There he is!"
"Capture him!"
"Erect a mana barrier!"
As expected, the culprit was Jerome.
The moment his position was revealed, he bolted. Gaining distance, he used spatial magic to vanish.
Count Bipenbelt and Gartros clenched their jaws.
An infuriatingly persistent pest, indeed.
Though Jerome's harassment was a massive headache for the First corps, it was no less taxing for the man himself.
"Huff, huff… This is exhausting," Jerome muttered.
Looking down at the long gash across his chest, he wore an expression of dismay.
"Damn, this one's taking forever to heal."
The wound from Idun's sword was only now beginning to close. The residual mana within had been violently resisting his efforts to heal.
He had conserved mana wherever possible, treating it with only rudimentary spells for now.
With every breath, Jerome could recover some mana, but his enemies were too powerful for such reprieve to last.
"I'll take a brief rest before moving on."
His mission was to delay the enemy and buy as much time as possible.
The problem was that he hadn't been told how long he needed to hold out. He had no idea how the war was progressing, so all he could do was repeat the same actions.
Luckily, he had become quite accustomed to this monotonous task. After all, he had developed a stubborn resilience through his work with artifacts.
"Ugh, time to get back to it."
After a short break, Jerome moved toward the direction of the First corps. Once ahead of their path, he got to work, painstakingly setting traps.
Though his pocket dimension still held a few runestones, instead of absorbing their mana for personal use, he opted to plant them in the ground as traps.
Carving hasty inscriptions into the runestones, Jerome buried them in the soil, one by one. Once the enemy approached, he would trigger the magic circles.
As he hid nearby and waited, the First corps appeared. Jerome judged the distance and activated the traps.
Soon, the runestones began to detonate in a timed sequence.
"They'll probably disarm them again."
It didn't matter if they succeeded; his only goal was to waste their time.
However, the enemy's response had now changed.
Boom!
Leading the charge was Gartros, whose blade emanated black energy that delved into the earth.
Boom! Boom!
The runestones exploded as they came into contact with Gartros's energy. Upon detecting the magic, he unleashed his power in all directions.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
Jerome watched as the traps he had painstakingly set were neutralized in an instant.
"…What a brutish way to handle things."
Such a reckless use of power would surely leave Gartros and his forces exhausted by the time they reached the battlefield. Yet, the fact they were willing to expend such energy meant they were confident in their ability to win, even in that state.
"Well, guess I'll just have to entertain them a bit longer."
Boom!
Jerome's body launched forward like a beam of light, mana blades shimmering in both hands.
Gartros glared and bellowed, "So you've come!"
"Let's not rush things, shall we?"
Clang!
Without further words, the two clashed. Soon, priests joined in, targeting Jerome from all sides.
Despite being heavily wounded and drained from his previous skirmishes with Idun and his prolonged interference with the Artrode army, Jerome fought valiantly.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
The pressure came from all directions. As he fought, Jerome managed to create some distance and, spotting an opportunity, darted to the side.
Mocking his pursuers, he taunted, "Keep chasing me if you want to waste more time! Your call!"
It was a desperate provocation, but one worth making if it bought precious minutes.
Chasing him any further would drain their own resources and energy. Yet Jerome's antics left the Artrode forces frustrated.
He was relentless in his evasive tactics, and despite their superior numbers, they found it difficult to corner him.
Though they could capture him if they dedicated all their efforts to the pursuit, the Artrode forces couldn't afford to focus solely on one man.
"You wretched pest!"
Gartros cursed repeatedly in his frustration.
The commanders reorganized their ranks, placing Gartros, priests, and elite knights at the vanguard. Even mages were brought closer to the front lines.
Though Jerome returned several times to disrupt their march, his traps became less effective. The Artrode army's response had grown more resolute.
Eventually, Jerome, exhausted and battered, was forced to retreat.
"I've done all I can."
With the main battle imminent, Jerome needed to recuperate his mana to support his allies.
He slipped away to find a hidden spot where he could rest and recover.
Meanwhile, the Artrode forces regained their momentum, though significant time had already been lost.
Count Bipenbelt, exasperated, spurred his army onward.
"Faster! We must end one of their flanks before the Lutania forces regroup!"
Victory hinged on swiftly eliminating either Duke Fenris or Prince of Turian. Whichever one remained would likely return to the fray.
Thud, thud, thud!
The First corps charged at full speed, finally reaching the Lutania alliance's most critical stronghold.
This location was pivotal, acting as the nexus of all supply routes and reinforcements.
Notably, it served as a direct connection to Sardina, the core of the allied kingdoms.
Provisions and troops from across the continent converged first at Sardina before dispersing to their respective fronts. Losing this stronghold would sever their supply lines and leave them vulnerable.
If the Artrode army seized this stronghold, they could starve out the enemy forces and gain a decisive advantage.
"This is our victory!" Count Bipenbelt roared.
Securing the stronghold would turn the tide, allowing the Artrode forces to isolate and crush the remaining resistance.
It was only natural to expect that the Lutania forces would be entrenched here, prepared to defend this crucial position.
But when they arrived—
"…Why?"
The troops stationed at the stronghold were not Lutania's forces but the army led by Marquis Gidion of Turian.
"What… Why?"
Count Bipenbelt was struck with confusion.
Marquis Gidion couldn't possibly hold this position. At best, he could buy some time.
Why, then, would they risk such a critical decision?
Unless their enemy had a different strategy in mind.
Count Bipenbelt's eyes trembled as he reevaluated the situation. If Lutania's forces weren't here, then he had to reconsider his entire strategy from the beginning.
"The Fifth and Sixth corps, the Seventh and Eighth, the Ninth and Tenth…"
The Artrode army had launched a three-pronged assault across multiple regions.
One flank had been decimated by Lutania forces, another by Prince of Turian, and the third by Duke Fenris.
On the allied side, two corps had been annihilated, one was under a spy's command, and the last one now stood before him under Marquis Gidion's flag.
So…
Where was the remaining half of Lutania's army?
A grim realization dawned on Count Bipenbelt.
"If… If all of Lutania's forces moved together from the start…"
Then only one battlefield would remain.
Whether Prince of Turian or Duke Fenris was free, one of those two formidable leaders would be unoccupied by now.
If that free commander had redirected their forces to ambush the main body of the Artrode army…
"Attack! Everyone, attack immediately! Secure this position as quickly as possible! Send word to the other corps—order them to halt their operations and converge here!"
The Third corps was isolated, and it would take time for the Second and Fourth to regroup.
Though he prayed otherwise, Count Bipenbelt feared the worst: at least one corps was already under attack.
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