The thing raised its head.
It didn't actually have a head—just a red-glowing protrusion. Rumor had it the higher-ups designed it specifically for their grunts, serving no practical purpose. Some fools mistook it for a demon, disobeyed orders to destroy it, and ended up court-martialed—along with machinery more expensive than an entire battalion. Such foolishness was all too common, so the Ordnance Corps altered its appearance, declaring it a hybrid hound—a symbol of the power to conquer demonic forces.
Though the sergeant thought the thing bore no resemblance to a hound, he had to admit it was a clever idea. After all, explaining what a red hound truly was to ordinary soldiers who'd never heard the word "machine" in their lives would be an exhausting endeavor.
The Red Hound lifted its head, its neck pointing in one direction, its "eyes" glowing a vivid red. It had recently undergone an upgrade, making its detection range more precise and lowering its threshold.
In other words, even the more human-looking hybrids would now appear on its hunting list.
The upgrade had only been completed in the past couple of days, and the sergeant grumbled about the poor timing. Days prior, garrisons across the land had received orders to exterminate the aberrations. Whatever had triggered this, the sergeant believed it was beneath a lowly officer like himself to speculate. He was delighted to seize this chance to eradicate the cancer festering in the Angaso Wilderness. That camp, a haven for fugitives, hybrids, and every form of scum, had long troubled the sergeant. He had always considered its existence a disgrace to any officer's garrison. But what could be done? Campaigns cost money, and superiors deemed it uneconomical to traverse the frigid wilderness battling climate, terrain, beasts, and those destitute desperados. As long as they stayed out of trouble, a blind eye was turned. The sergeant had no choice—until the new orders arrived.
They were granted permission and ample supplies. Finishing the job was a mere trifle. They slaughtered some bastards and burned the camp to the ground, though most residents had already slipped away faster than rabbits. The sergeant ordered his men to hang the heads of the dead and captured on the flagpole. Those rat-like creatures, devoid of honor, showed no desire for revenge and not a single one dared to show their face.
The camp was permanently erased from the sergeant's territory, but that was far from enough. He knew these bastards were like rats—destroying one nest wouldn't stop them from rising again. Only by slaughtering every adult rat and drowning every pup could the plague truly be eradicated, preventing these damned abominations from the abyss from polluting human space and consuming human resources. He led the entire force in pursuit, but at this critical moment, headquarters recalled the Red Hounds, claiming they needed upgrading.
What a fucking perfect timing. They should have returned triumphant with the heads of the stragglers, but the Red Hounds' absence let that pack slip right through their fingers. Worse still, one squad vanished completely—damned if anyone knew where they went. The sergeant reached the flare launch site five minutes after the signal, yet not a single corpse lay there. The ground was bare, with bloodstains in some spots—nothing else.
"We're hunting ghouls that devoured an entire squad!"
This rumor spread like wildfire through the ranks, forcing officers to quash it with force. The sergeant bore the blame for no reason, simply because he'd been closest and counted as the first witness. His colleagues eyed him suspiciously, as if he'd been so blind he'd let the enemy escape and missed the bodies altogether.
The non-commissioned officer was furious. That was why he was here, leading his direct subordinates, searching the wilderness at three in the morning. That was why the light of victory shone upon him now, the red hound's eyes suddenly glowing in the wilds, signaling the sudden reappearance of the enemies who had vanished just moments before.
"All units, attention!" he barked excitedly. "Full speed ahead!"
The pursuit took less than an hour, and the skirmish ended even faster. The hordes of dwarves ahead were terrified the moment they saw the torches, clearly not expecting their positions to be exposed so quickly—they hadn't been within the Red Hound's pursuit range before, and none of them looked like non-human aberrations at first glance. They'd probably thought they were safe.
The hard-bones had fallen during the first campaign, and the clever ones knew better than to travel in packs. These weak, stupid creatures moving in groups before them were so pathetic the sergeant couldn't believe they'd evaded capture before. He did not order a volley of crossbow bolts—those were reserved for more severe situations and should not be wasted on these men. It took little effort to encircle the entire group, encountering little meaningful resistance.
The soldiers herded their captured prey into the circle. The sergeant barked at the trembling fugitives, "Where are your comrades?"
No one spoke.
"Denying it? Your comrades killed brave soldiers and hid you away—no one believes you could have done this alone!" the sergeant barked. "Confess quickly, and I'll grant you a merciful death!"
He heard a sob; a child began to cry. His mother frantically tried to cover his mouth. The sergeant ordered someone to pull her hand away. He expected to hear a confession, but the child only wailed, sobbing until he began to hiccup. It seemed the mother's action stemmed not from bravery or loyalty, but from fear that the crying would draw attention.
The sergeant grew impatient. Though it was still summer, the dawn in the Angarsian wilderness was bitterly cold. He needed to take some prisoners back for interrogation; there were enough people here already.
"Keep ten," he ordered. "Kill the rest."
The soldiers drew their weapons.
The surrounded bastards screamed, becoming noisy once more. Many soldiers' eyes gleamed with cruelty. These night shift workers had been waiting all evening for this. Slaughtering the other kind was always a popular stress reliever—it was fun and made you a hero. The sergeant turned wearily toward his horse. He had no interest in this noisy party, only a desire to get back quickly and pour himself a drink.
That turn saved his eyes.
The sergeant heard screams—from his own men. A searing pain erupted at the back of his skull, as if something had sliced through his cap and hair, cutting straight into his scalp. What kind of weapon was this? "Find cover!" he bellowed, the howl of wind mingling with the screams.
His horse bolted. The sergeant lucked out, finding a tree to hide behind. He pulled the thing that had struck him from the back of his head—an oak leaf?!
He glanced back with effort. The once-orderly ranks were now scattered. Many clutched their faces, wailing, running wildly like frightened horses. No enemies were in sight, but the gale carried a torrent of leaves, their edges razor-sharp.
The prisoners were unharmed—they'd been forced to crouch earlier, and these dwarves stood no taller than a grown man's chest. The leaves, whipped by the strange wind, arrived with deadly precision, striking soldiers at a height that spared the shorter figures. Some clever dwarves seized the chance to flee with their families. The sergeant frowned and barked orders for the soldiers to hit the deck.
"Duck! Shields up!" he bellowed. The shield bearers raised their shields, forming a barrier at the front. Blinded soldiers who panicked were knocked unconscious and left on the ground, while the rest regrouped. The leaves had indeed caused significant casualties, but their impact was less devastating than a volley of arrows. Concentrating and crouching was enough to avoid them. They quickly re-formed their ranks. The sergeant squinted toward the source of the blades, his excitement reigniting.
There was the phantom outline of a great tree—another aberration, this one appearing massive. Such grotesquely deformed aberrations were rare these days. Its carcass would be sent to the capital for exhibition, earning the sergeant a prestigious medal for his military career.
"Look! A living monster lies ahead!" he shouted, stirring the troops. "It's just a tree—that's all it can do! The wind won't rage forever!"
As if echoing his words, the leaves fell less densely than before.
"Soldiers, are you afraid? We hold torches and crossbow bolts. We are the lords of all creation, the sole masters of Erian!" The sergeant declared, pleased to see the soldiers' morale rising. "Come! Let us burn that monstrous tree, sever its withered branches, and chop off every dwarf's head! For the blood shed by our ancestors and comrades, for Erian!"
"For Erian!"
The soldiers shouted in unison, blades and torches raised, some shielding themselves, others crouching low as they advanced toward the oak....
Marion leapt to her feet.
She sprang up as if to flee—had she not collided with the ghost hovering beside her as she turned, she might have already bolted from the dungeon. The werewolf girl's jaw clenched tight, her body taut, already locked into combat mode.
Tasha could see the ground directly from the watchtower, but to show others, she needed some sort of projection magic. The mana cost was significant, but absolutely worth it.
In the projected image, Marion witnessed a massacre about to unfold.
She couldn't stand idly by. She wanted to rush in to help, but upon locking eyes with the ghost, she realized her ownership had been transferred to another. "Please let me help them!" Marion blurted out. "I beg you, allow me..."
"Why?" Tasha asked.
"They're about to be killed! It's only a matter of time!" " Marion kept glancing back. "Grandfather Oak's leaves are nearly gone. He can't leave now!"
"But what does that have to do with me?" Tasha said.
Marion's expression went blank.
"I saved you, hosted you, and let them leave without a word. The former was bound by contract, the latter merely kindness. You should know mercy isn't infinite," Tasha said gently. " Since they chose to leave, why should their fate concern me? And you, my Contract Holder—do you intend to single-handedly change the course of battle? Your success brings me no benefit. Your failure means I lose valuable assets. In truth, treating your injuries has already cost me dearly. Why should I risk you for the sake of unrelated beings?"
"I can give you my soul..."
"You've already given it to me. Don't you know that?" Tasha looked at her, her gaze bordering on pity.
Marion might not know, or perhaps she didn't remember—this poor child had never understood the contract. The werewolf girl was speechless. Tasha could almost hear her mind racing, desperately searching for any remaining bargaining chips. But she had nothing left, just as Tasha had anticipated.
Tasha felt like she was bullying a child, but she was determined to possess certain things.
The last leaf fell.
Marion drew a breath. She looked as if she'd made a decision, or perhaps she'd simply given up, no longer troubled by worry. That expression of despair mingled with hope returned to her face, her green eyes seeming to ignite with a flame that could consume everything.
"If you save them..." she said, "they will stay. I will persuade them, or guard them." "You will have my soul and my unwavering loyalty. Even if you asked me to turn my blade against the Wolf God, I would not hesitate for a second."
Marion knelt, her dagger piercing the back of her hand, sealing the highest vow among werewolves. Breathing raggedly, she felt her shoulders slump, her heart pounding wildly. Now, truly, she had sold everything she was to the devil.
She had nothing left.
"I accept," the specter said. Gentle light flared in Marion's palm, mending the fresh wound. The demon's whisper was as soft as an angel's. "And I shall guard you well, until I turn to dust."