It was a perilous situation.
"Damn it all…!"
The aberrant's body was little more than a shredded rag, his life hanging by a thread, ready to snap at any moment.
The greatest problem was the Armian light clinging to his wounds, gnawing away at his demonic energy.
"Aint Armian! Didn't I tell you not to kill him?!"
"S-sorry. I didn't realize…."
But the wounds only widened further.
No matter that he was an aberrant—because the opposing force was making the injuries worse, leaving him doomed to die if left as he was.
Yet no one knew how to treat him.
Aberrants were those who had sold their souls to demons for power.
They were little more than degraded demons themselves—and who had ever heard of a cure for demons?
The prophecy book never mentioned anything like this.
Fortunately, it wasn't that there was nothing they could do.
"Aint, withdraw your power."
"Yes."
The light eating into the aberrant's body returned to its master. Fernan sprang to his feet.
"Keep an eye on him. Don't let him die."
He strode toward the battlefield, where fighting still raged. The reek of monsters and the heat of battle clung to the sands.
Rumble— He thrust his staff forward, and the desert sands rose, wrapping around the corpses of monsters.
Dozens. The sand compressed them all into spheres, then carried them to hover above the aberrant.
"What are you doing?"
"Feeding him."
If mana was his opposite and potions wouldn't work—then what about the blood of monsters, imbued with demonic energy?
Given the regenerative power aberrants were known for, it just might work.
Hm? Feeding monster blood to an aberrant?
Not a bad idea. Monster blood holds demonic energy. Replenish what he's lost, and his regeneration will return.
Since I've already withdrawn my power… it should be possible, shouldn't it?
It was simple—but no one had thought of it. Because the idea of reviving a half-dead aberrant had never occurred to them.
Crunch, crack—
The sand spheres compressed further, bursting flesh, splintering bone, squeezing out blood.
The black ichor seeped from the sand, pouring into the aberrant's wounds and mouth. "Feeding" wasn't the right word—it was more like drenching him.
But it worked.
"Ugh…"
A faint groan escaped the unconscious aberrant's lips. Slowly, his wounds began to knit.
Good.
Fernan glanced around.
Perhaps because their master was unconscious, the monsters scattered.
The Ironblood Knights had formed a defensive formation around the students, while the Bloodmad Knights, Altriark's elites, and the belatedly joined desert warriors were butchering the fleeing beasts.
…It's over.
They had caught him more easily than expected, but in the end, the plan had succeeded: pitting Aint against the aberrant.
Rudger's magic had half-pinned the aberrant, but Aint's power seems stronger than what the prophecy book described.
Was it thanks to Saintbird's heart?
Whatever the case, though he'd handed it over without much thought, Saintbird—alongside the Phoenix—was one of the mightiest of divine beasts.
Its very existence rivaled Royal Knights and Archmages.
Feeding Aint its heart was like starting a racehorse with the finest pedigree imaginable.
"Aint Armian. You're sensitive to demonic energy, aren't you?"
"Yes."
"Stay by this one's side until we return to Altriark. If he shows signs of waking, knock him out immediately. If it comes to it, cut off his limbs with your aura."
"His… limbs?"
"He's trash who betrayed humanity for demons. Cast aside your pity."
"…That's true, but… understood."
Aint glanced toward Grad, who gave a small nod. At that, he accepted.
Fernan had restored the aberrant just enough to keep him alive, nothing more. He flung the drained corpses back into the desert sands.
Not long after, the battle was over.
They had expected to return directly to Altriark.
But the desert tribe changed those plans.
"Ooh! The holy light!"
"The return of legend!"
"O glorious one!"
They were humanoid, with dusky red skin and hulking muscles that would put even orcs to shame.
The desert tribes were nearly human, yet not quite.
Their bodies were blessed—extraordinarily tough and strong. Their flesh alone made them a warrior race.
Yet, perhaps as the cost, their sensitivity to mana was nearly zero. They could not wield it at all.
And now, these tribesfolk bent their knees before Aint, bowing their heads.
Not just a few—but all of them. A thousand desert tribesmen in total.
"Uh… what is this…?"
Aint faltered at the sudden turn.
No need to be surprised. The desert tribes once…
"The Taklakan tribes are said to have fought alongside the first Emperor a thousand years ago."
Grad spoke, arms crossed.
The first Emperor—who had united six kingdoms and new religions into one empire—was said to have still hungered for more.
What caught his eye then were the Taklakan desert tribes.
They could not wield mana or aura, but they were monsters in human flesh.
They revered strength. And the first Emperor had crushed them with his own.
"Yet to think… after a thousand years, they still serve the Armian line?"
"Strange indeed. The desert tribes were nearly abandoned by the Empire…"
The first Emperor had become their Khan, leading them into battle.
The desert tribes had rendered great service, and the Emperor had promised—and indeed granted—them many things.
But that was only from the perspective of the first Emperor. To the established nobility, a new power was anything but welcome.
Especially when that power was made up of rough savages from a barren desert—men who knew nothing but brute strength.
It hadn't been outright oppression.
After all, the desert tribes were founding contributors to the Empire.
But over a thousand years, the support they had once enjoyed slowly, imperceptibly dwindled.
That alone was enough.
The barren desert could not sustain its wealth and power without outside aid.
Once united in order to survive, the tribes splintered again, scattering across the sands.
That was the present reality.
"Thanks to you, our tribe lives on. Please do not make us ungrateful beasts."
"We must report back to His Excellency, so we must leave."
"Then at least… please, allow these honored guests to remain a day longer."
"…Very well."
"Then, for the Academy members' safety, the Bloodmad Knights will also remain."
Thus the Ironblood Knights and four hundred elites departed, leaving behind the Bloodmad Knights, a hundred elite soldiers, nine Academy students, and two professors.
The desert tribe slaughtered herds of livestock and roasted the meat. It had been long since they'd held a festival, and joy shone on every face.
"Aint, how was the aberrant?"
"Thanks to Senior Rudger, easier than expected."
"If Rudger heard that, he'd have a fit."
Of course, Aint knew that too—but Rudger disliked him regardless.
Fernan lifted a cup of harsh desert liquor, his eyes scanning the tribesmen.
They're poor, all of them. Well, what can one do in the desert? With Imperial support cut off, and monsters running wild…
There was nothing here worth money.
The desert folk had nothing—nothing but their bodies.
Maybe if I arranged for them to form a mercenary company, they could grow into something useful. I'd make a tidy commission…
His mercantile instincts spinning, Fernan noticed someone approaching.
"So, here is the hero who saved our tribe."
The one who slid in beside them with a genial smile was the chieftain.
"You flatter me. I didn't defeat him alone…"
"No one can deny the decisive role you played. That doesn't mean I don't hold gratitude for the others as well."
The chieftain pressed a cup on him. After the three of them had drained five or six rounds, the chieftain departed.
"Senior, I'll step away a moment…"
"Go on."
Once Aint was gone, Fernan's bleary gaze sharpened.
Interesting. Very interesting.
He hadn't missed the subtle hand signs exchanged between the chieftain and Aint.
"Why did you ask to see me alone?"
Aint, who had said he was going to the latrine, entered the chieftain's yurt.
"Because I have something to say, of course. Ah—will you drink?"
"Yes."
The chieftain handed him a cup, filled it to the brim once Aint accepted.
"Well then. What do you prefer? Straight to the point? Or shall we circle around a little?"
"I'd like the point."
"You're in a hurry."
"In a situation like this, wouldn't anyone be?"
"That's true enough."
The chieftain thought a moment, then began.
"Did you know? Though our tribes are scattered now, there is a saying handed down among all desert clans."
"A saying?"
Clack. The chieftain set down the flask. What came out of his mouth seemed an odd response.
"Long ago, the desert tribes were divided. Though they were once one people, centuries of strife turned them into worse than enemies. But there came one who bound them back together."
In the Empire he was known as the first Emperor. Among the desert tribes, he was the first Khan.
"It was our most glorious era. Under the Khan, united tribes became a confederation that wielded formidable might."
No one dared look down on them then. On the contrary, they feared them.
"When we fought demons and monsters across the continent, there was one who represented the tribes under the Khan."
After the first Emperor stepped down from the Khan's seat, the second Khan was Oswell Valance.
He was the desert tribes' great warrior—strongest and wisest among them.
Oswell Valance. A name I recall well. Simple, perhaps—but formidable.
Though he couldn't wield aura, his physical strength was monstrous.
He was appointed a Royal Knight by the late Emperor himself.
The chieftain wet his throat, then continued.
"This saying… it was his legacy."
I can guess what it is.
"What does it say?"
"'Hell's Wrath is not yet ended, and the world shall again fall into despair. But the Holy Light shall return. Upon the red sands shall sprout a new shoot, and with promised glory shall lead us onward.'"
"…What?"
Hah. The late Emperor merely warned that demons would one day stir again and told them to be ready, that the price would fall on their descendants. But they've dressed it up into grand prophecy.
Desert folk do love their ornamentation.
Gardner clicked his tongue.
"I confess, I always thought it empty words. But today I've seen otherwise."
"Uh…"
"The demons rise again… and the Holy Light has descended before us. How could it be false?"
"You mean…"
"Yes. We will serve you as Khan. Lead us to glory."
The chieftain suddenly bowed low. Aint stammered, flustered.
"…On the basis of one saying, you'd make me Khan?"
"Does that seem strange?"
"And doesn't it?"
The chieftain laughed aloud.
"Ha ha ha ha! A jest, of course. Surely I wouldn't leap to that at once!"
He upended a massive cup in one go.
"Everyone knows desert folk dress their sayings to look important. They're always mixed with exaggeration and falsehood—you must sift out the truth."
"..."
"I know you are the Holy Light. But that doesn't mean I believe you will surely lead us to glory, as the second Khan's words said."
"Then what about serving me as Khan…?"
"No, that is true."
The chieftain shook his head.
"But not because of that saying. Because it benefits us."
His eyes sharpened.
"I'm not good at lying, so I'll speak plainly. The desert fought beside the Empire against the demons, yet received no just reward. In truth, what we had was slowly stolen."
Once Imperial nobles forgot their debt to the desert, once they began to see them as barbarians, support withered.
Without it, the tribes declined, falling back to the days before unification.
If you think about it… doesn't that mean they sat around doing nothing but sponging off Imperial aid for a thousand years?
Aint forced himself to ignore Gardner's jab.
"The Empire, the continent, advanced. But we regressed."
The desert had no future if things continued as they were.
"That is why, in a way, we welcome this moment."
"What do you mean?"
"The second Khan, alongside the first, united the desert tribes. Countless lives were lost in the war against the demons, but in return, we shone more brilliantly than ever."
And now, war was approaching once more.
"I believe this is the opportunity granted to us. The desert's last chance to rise again."
War always takes much—but, ironically, someone always profits.
For the desert tribes, it was the rope cast down to save them.
"We wish to fight under you, Aint Armian. Let us become your warriors, to rip apart the demons. In return, you must promise us rights, wealth, and land on which to live."
Then we will be united.
"We will serve you as Khan."
Not because of prophecy.
Not because of old glory.
"We will use you."
A brutally pragmatic reality.
"So you, in turn, must use us."
It was the only way to survive.
"..."
Aint could not answer at once.
He wrestled with the decision, thought upon thought.
After a long silence, he finally spoke.
"Honestly… I might fail. I cannot say for certain that I will defeat the demons or become Emperor."
"I know."
"Then why me? Is it just because I'm descended from the first Emperor?"
"Because only you will need us."
A simple, practical truth. The Armians lacked power.
Because of the first Emperor's misguided judgment, most of their lands had been absorbed into the throne—and passed on to the Schwabens.
The former imperial family, left only with a hollow title.
A house with nothing left, save its drunken nostalgia for past glory.
Thus, if they were to aim for the throne again, they needed powerful allies.
And the desert tribes were the perfect force to fill that void.
"…Very well."
"An excellent choice!"
The chieftain burst into hearty laughter, filling a great cup and thrusting it toward Aint.
"When the desert makes an oath of fealty, we seal it with drink. In one draught."
"This is a bit…"
But Aint already found the cup in his hand.
Clink. Their cups struck, and as the chieftain's throat bobbed, Aint had no choice but to down his drink as well.
"Kh-haaah! In such a moment, the liquor tastes sweeter still."
"…Yes. Sweet indeed."
Aint swallowed down the rising gag with effort.
"From this day, we will serve you as our lord. First, I will summon a tribal council and have them proclaim you Khan. We must follow proper form, so it will take some time."
"Understood. I trust you. Ah, but if possible… this matter should be…"
"Kept secret, yes. I will make sure word does not leak."
With that brief exchange, they returned to the festival.
Neither of them knew.
—Kkung?
That behind a tent pole, a tiny golem was watching.
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