Three weeks since the horde reached Laos, the fortress still stood.
The Crawlers had broken themselves again and again against the trenches, against the layered bastions, against the thunder of the cannons. And each time, Logos Laos answered with new inventions.
This time, it was a new type of shell.
The first volley shook the fortress walls as fire streaked across the night sky, then crashed into the advancing swarm. For a heartbeat, nothing—then the ground itself ignited.
Flames of pale blue rippled outward, eating soil and stone alike. The Crawlers shrieked, their limbs melting in the blaze, their carapaces cracking as though boiled from within. Even after their bodies fell still, the earth smoldered with unnatural fire, rendering it a blackened scar no beast could cross.
The men stared, silent, their mouths dry with horror.
Logos, standing at the command post, merely adjusted his notes. "Mark the range. Triple production. Masen, see if the residue can be scraped for use in powder mixtures."
Masen grinned like a demon. "Aye, my lord."
The fortress was safe for another day.
While the Laos barony turned its very soil into a weapon, the western city of Orgar cried for salvation.
There, it was Sous Angelus who answered.
He and his knights arrived in crimson banners, their sabres gleaming, their mana conduits sparking with elemental fury. The horde had already broken the outer walls of Orgar when the Angelus host descended.
Sous himself led the charge, his armor flaring with fire and lightning as he cleaved a path through the breach. Knights followed in a wedge formation, striking like a spear thrust into the swarm's gut. Crawlers fell in droves, their corpses piling into mounds that choked their own advance.
By sunset, the city was relieved. The battered defenders, weeping in exhaustion, hailed Sous as though he were a demigod descended from heaven. His name was sung in the streets, his deeds whispered in awe.
Sous did not bask in it. He raised his sabre skyward and declared:
"We are not done. Gather the wounded. Every soul who lives, we carry forward."
The city followed him as though possessed.
Nineteen days later.
The western front burned with endless war. Sous fought again, this time reinforced by the Verya family, their knights clad in silver-blue armor. Crawlers swarmed in numbers beyond count, yet again he cut through them, leading men who believed no beast could withstand his strike.
Wherever Sous fought, the land was cleansed. Crawlers were not just repelled—they were annihilated, purged from the soil until not a single carapace twitched. He left behind a silence so profound it felt holy.
The nobles grew uneasy.
A youth of sixteen, gathering victories that shamed entire hosts of seasoned generals. Refugees clung to him. Cities swore loyalty not just to Duke Angelus, but to Sous himself. Lords whispered that his shadow was too long, his glory too bright.
But still, no one could deny: he was the sword of the Kingdom.
Back in Laos territory, a new threat emerged.
From the western ridge, another horde joined the fray, crashing down toward the barony's already-bloodied fields. Yet instead of panic, there was discipline.
Masen himself commanded the counter. He lured the Crawlers into one of Logos's "kill zones"—a valley rigged with overlapping cannon ranges, stakes, pits, and pre-laid fire shells.
The horde entered.
Minutes later, the valley was a cauldron of smoke and screaming. Cannonballs tore into their flanks, collapsing rockslides crushed their ranks, and the cursed fire consumed what remained. When the smoke cleared, no casualty among the Laos soldiers was counted.
The fortress cheered for Masen, but all eyes turned back to Logos, who had orchestrated it all on parchment days earlier.
"No casualties again," Lucy whispered in relief, her chest easing.
Logos only pushed a piece further on the map. "Good. Next wave, we'll test the new loading mechanism."
Twenty days more.
The Crawlers continued to hurl themselves at Laos, and each time, they left their bodies behind. Thousands upon thousands of carapaces, limbs, and steaming piles of meat.
At first, the corpses were burned. But wood and oil ran short.
It was one of the smiths who first tried cutting into the flesh, cooking it over low flame. The meat was bitter, acrid, but edible. And to starving stomachs, edible was enough.
Soon, it spread. Refugees gnawed at blackened chunks. Soldiers mixed it into stews. A delicacy, some joked, though their laughter was thin.
Logos himself sampled it one evening, chewing thoughtfully. "Tough," he muttered, "but rich in protein. Preservable with salt. If rationed properly, it extends supplies by threefold."
Lucy grimaced. "You're eating monsters, Logos."
"They're already eating us," he replied coldly. "Consider it balance."
From then on, the Crawlers were no longer just enemies. They were resource. Meat, bone, chitin—each part was catalogued and tested. Logos kept notes on texture, preservation methods, and potential medicinal properties. What horrified others, he approached as opportunity.
In time, soldiers joked their young lord had found a way to make even hell taste like supper. But beneath the jest lay unease.
Meanwhile, Sous's legend only grew.
He purged three hordes in a single day. His knights claimed he did not sleep, that his armor glowed with divine fire that never dimmed. When he cut down the swarm, he was not merely fighting—he was liberating.
And afterward, he gathered the refugees himself, guiding them to safer cities. He carried children in his arms, rode beside broken families, comforted widows with words of fire and hope.
The lords hated it. Refugees were tools, labor, coin in waiting. Yet Sous treated them as sacred charges. His popularity grew by the day.
And so, eight weeks passed.
Two youths, two prodigies, etched their marks deeper with each dawn.
In Laos, soldiers whispered of a lord colder than iron, who fed his men Crawlers and burned the very earth to ash, yet never let his walls fall.
In Angelus banners, they sang of a boy who carved miracles with his blade and carried the people in his own hands.
And both watched the other.
"They are eating the Crawlers?!" Sous looked up from a document, his brow furrowed. His sabre rested beside him, its blade newly cleaned. "Has he finally gone mad?"
Relten, seated across, did not answer at once. His lips curved faintly, as though amused. "Mad, perhaps. But effective."
Sous scowled, his fist tightening. "Effectiveness without honor is still madness."
Meanwhile, in Laos territory, Logos moved another piece on his sprawling map. His voice was flat, but his eyes gleamed with calculation.
"Twenty-nine hordes in eight weeks," he murmured. "If Sous Angelus has purged half that number alone, then the other generals must be lazing about in their camps."
Lucy frowned. "You almost sound… impressed."
Logos did not smile. "No. Only noting inefficiency."
Yet, for the first time, his hand lingered above the map, hovering near the western frontier—near the edge of Angelus territory.
Two stars. Two paths.
And the war ground on, feeding both their legends.