Several hundred kilometers from the frontline, atop a remote mountain peak.
Perched lazily on a stone seat cobbled together from rocks, Orsaga sprawled out like a salted fish basking in the sun.
Ever since he completed his batch of "plague bombs," he hadn't budged from this spot. Other than occasionally hunting a few magical beasts for a snack, he was too lazy to move at all.
At this moment, a massive magical projection floated in front of him, broadcasting real-time footage of the demonic tide.
These reconnaissance spells, though somewhat distorted by the massive barrier around the frontline—like an old TV with terrible reception, all flickering pixels and static—still served their purpose. He could more or less make out what was going on.
"177, 257, 394…"
He could clearly sense that the number of native plague carriers was steadily increasing.
Because most of the native organisms were still conscious and protected by magical energy layers on their skin, the plague's spread had been significantly curbed. For now, aside from a few weaker ones, most had only traces of the virus clinging to their bodies. Orsaga's influence on them was still limited.
However, for those whose bodies had already been invaded by the virus, Orsaga could vaguely sense their condition. When the time came, he would be able to manually activate the virus within them.
That said, if we're being honest, compared to the infected natives, the number of Abyssal creatures that had contracted the plague was at least ten times higher.
After all, most of his "plague bombs" had been deployed within the demonic tide itself. In many cases, they didn't even make contact with the enemy before getting blown apart by long-range attacks.
As a result, when the virus inside them eventually erupted, there was often no one nearby except their own comrades—meaning the first wave of infections hit the demons themselves.
This outcome wasn't unexpected. Orsaga had seen it coming.
Once the demonic tide ended, he would simply allow the virus to burn itself out.
Not because he had any sentimental attachment to his fellow demons—far from it.
He just didn't want to deal with the unnecessary hassle of mass casualties. After all, if too many demons died, it might cause trouble for the demon Lord Ignarok, and Orsaga wasn't looking to get on that particular boss's bad side.
That guy kept a ledger of grievances, and it was heavy—far too burdensome for a young and promising demon like himself.
---
Several days later.
Emosen sat atop the corpse of a massive beast, gasping for breath, his body covered in wounds. Days of relentless fighting had left him utterly exhausted, with nothing more on his mind than collapsing into sleep.
He hadn't been sitting long before a loud, hearty voice called from behind, "Come on, let's get a drink!"
Turning his head, Emosen saw a short but extremely burly figure approaching.
From the thick beard and characteristic features, it was obvious—the figure was a dwarf.
And not just any dwarf, but an old acquaintance of Emosen's.
Centuries ago, the two had a long history of personal grudges. Skirmishes and vendettas were practically part of their routine.
But after fighting side by side for over a hundred years, those ancient grudges had long since faded away—replaced by genuine camaraderie.
Funny how fate works sometimes.
If it hadn't been for the Abyss's invasion forcing them to the brink, they might've spent their whole lives as enemies—trapped in the endless cycle of racial hatred passed down generation after generation.
Their ancestors had carried those grudges like torches, passing them down for centuries.
Shaking his head to drive away those useless old thoughts, Emosen looked helplessly at the dwarf demigod before him. "Didn't we just drink a few days ago?"
The dwarf scowled. "A few days ago was a few days ago! Today is today! I'm a dwarf—if I die, I must die drunk!"
The dwarf's declaration left no room for argument.
Seeing that Emosen had no intention of indulging his "wise philosophy," the dwarf demigod grew even more indignant. "How am I supposed to get in the mood for a fight without a good drink? As long as there's enough booze, I could stay in this hellhole until the end of time!"
Emosen shook his head and replied flatly, "...Twisted logic."
Then his gaze shifted toward the surrounding soldiers who were busy recovering the bodies of their fallen comrades and dealing with the leftover remains of magical beasts. His expression grew heavy as he muttered:
"How many times have we seen this kind of scene?"
"Three hundred? Five hundred?"
"You think we'll ever live to see the day these monsters are driven back?"
The dwarf demigod scratched his head, a little unsure. "We probably will? I mean, I've lived long enough already—if I die now, I can't really complain."
"Besides, I've done everything I possibly could in this war. If we really end up failing in the end, then all I can do is accept it. There's just... nothing more I can do."
Seeing the seriousness in his companion's eyes, Emosen fell silent for a moment, then chuckled and shook his head.
He had to admit—those words made sense.
If you've truly done everything in your power, then whether you win or lose… it no longer matters. You can only accept the result with peace of mind.
Standing up, Emosen clapped the dwarf on the shoulder and grinned. "Come on then. Let's hit the usual spot. This time, you're buying!"
The dwarf immediately protested. "What?! I treated you last time! Shouldn't it be your turn?"
Emosen waved dismissively, his voice firm. "Yeah, but you always drink way more than me. Even if we take turns, I still end up losing out. So from now on, for every time I treat you, you owe me three in return."
The dwarf was outraged. "What kind of nonsense is that? That's not fair!"
'No way I'm giving up on mooching after all these years!'
"I—!"
Still bickering, the two of them finally stepped into a teleportation portal and vanished.
---
Inside the front line.
A sealed examination room.
Several mages clad in what looked like hazmat suits were circling around Emosen.
They were inspecting his physical condition—a standard procedure for any warrior returning from the battlefield.
This was both to catch any hidden injuries and to prevent Abyssal creatures from sneaking past the defenses using disguise spells or possession tactics.
In the early days of the war, they'd suffered heavy losses from precisely those kinds of infiltrations.
If it weren't for the fact that Abyssal lifeforms tended to be… intellectually challenged, often fumbling their missions at critical moments, the front line might've been overrun long ago.
After a thorough inspection, the lead examiner studied the data on the detection array, nodded with satisfaction, and gave the all-clear. Emosen was free to leave.
And at that very moment—several hundred kilometers away—Orsaga slowly sat upright from his stone seat, a satisfied grin spreading across his face.
After days of waiting, he finally sensed it: his plague had entered the front line.
It was only a single strain for now, but that alone was already a promising sign.
As long as around ten different strains made it inside and successfully spread, he'd have the foundation needed to stir up something truly big.
"Things are about to get much simpler…"
__
T/N:
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